


These Happy Gilded Years

by crinklefries, nalonzoo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1890s New York City, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bad Matchmaking, Banter, Bucky's Curls, Cher Horowitz but make her Steve Rogers, Emma AU, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Historical Romance, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Matchmaking, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Minor Loki/Thor (Marvel), Minor Maria Hill/Valkyrie, Minor Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli, Minor Sam Wilson/Claire Temple, Misunderstandings, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slight Age Difference, Slow Burn, Steve is a well intentioned terror, Yearning, love in the Gilded Age, one sided crushes and related shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23564305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/pseuds/crinklefries, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nalonzoo/pseuds/nalonzoo
Summary: Steve Rogers, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and mostly happy disposition, had lived twenty-three years in the world with very little to distress or vex him.*( Steve is wealthy and and charming, with good humor and good temper, doted upon by his mother and the highest of New York Society, with no one to ever criticize or say the word no to him. Well, other than Bucky. But he doesn't count.He is also warm and friendly and has a talent for matchmaking. Or so he thinks. Actually, he's kind of terrible at it.Importantly, Steve will definitely never fall in love or marry, himself. He tells everyone this, repeatedly. Well anyway, we'll see about that. )*Jane Austen'sEmma, but a little gayer, set in 1890s Gilded Era New York City
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 420
Kudos: 413
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> This fic has been an incredibly long time in coming. Thank you so much to [Kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/pseuds/kalika_999) who so graciously bid on me during Fandom Trumps Hate in _March 2019_ and has been ever so gracious and patient since then as I took my sweet old time wrapping my head around _how_ I could possibly translate Jane Austen to a stucky AU and--what's more!--one of her funniest and most complicated works. 
> 
> I tried my absolute best to capture the whimsy and charm of Emma in this and what I have to say is--holy shit are historical romances difficult to write!! This fic nearly killed me. It was nearly beyond my skill set. It _was_ beyond my skill set! My absolute hats off to every single person out there writing historical romances--you are all GENIUSES. 
> 
> Thank you also to [mambo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo) for betaing this monstrosity in its ramshackle, unfinished form and helping me adjust details for better historical accuracy. There are definitely some things I still fudged, but I appreciate your research and enthusiasm and help greatly, friend!
> 
> FINALLY--the incredible, amazing, STUNNING art is done by [nalonzooo](https://twitter.com/nalonzooo), who is not only gracious and supportive and lovely, but whose art for this fic is just. BEYOND. Seriously, wait for it, it's THAT fucking good. 
> 
> ANYWAY--please enjoy this 68,000 word Jane Austen AU. I tried my best, mostly by describing Bucky's cute curls as many times as possible. ♥

“Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing; but I have never been in love;  
it is not my way, nor my nature; and I do not think I ever shall.”  
— _Emma_ , Jane Austen

*

**PART I.**

**FALL.**

Steve Rogers, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and mostly happy disposition, had lived twenty-three years in the world with very little to distress or vex him.

He had a mother who, while more than a little nervous, cared for him, and close friends who found him charming, and an estate the size of one whole block on Fifth Avenue, which certainly helped. His father had passed away when he was barely thirteen years, and that certainly took a toll on him certain winter days, but Joseph Rogers had left to him and his mother an amount of wealth that neither could spend in their lifetimes, and investments in rail and steel that ensured they would never have to even fathom what it would be like to do so.

That suited Steve just fine, who picked up a handful of skills as he went along life, but never any real enterprise, and it suited Sarah Rogers even better, because she had told Steve more than a dozen times that she could not and would not bear to be parted from her only child.

“Ma, I have no intention of leaving Brookfield in this lifetime or the next,” Steve said, opening the window in the sitting room. “And New York City even less. First of all, where would I go? And second of all, who would I go with?”

That answer clearly did not suit Sarah, if the look of displeasure she gave her son was anything to go by.

“After the disruption you have caused to our lives, I should say I’m certain you would find someone and some way,” his mother sniffed.

That, Steve supposed, was his own fault, although he was much happier about the whole ordeal than his mother was.

“Ma,” Steve said, with not a little amusement, and a lot of joy. “This was what she wanted. And they are a perfect match, you have to admit.”

“I have to admit no such thing,” Sarah Rogers said, sitting in her favorite chair across the room, away from the window, because while she loved fresh air, she feared catching a chill even more. “We were doing just fine, the three of us, and now you have made her leave us. And for what!”

“For love, I would think,” Steve said, with a smile.

He stood by the large window, looking out onto the bustle of Fifth Avenue on a mild Autumn morning. There were a lot of things that Steve loved, but nothing so much as this—watching Manhattan come alive around him, while he waited and carefully watched.

“Love,” his mother grumbled. “And what good has love ever done anyone?”

“Did you not marry for love, Mrs. Rogers?” a familiar voice interrupted Steve before he could say much the same thing.

“Oh,” Sarah’s voice grew a shade brighter. “James, when did you get in?”

“Just now,” James Buchanan Barnes said. Steve scrunched his face—which was how he always prepared to deal with his oldest and possibly closest—on certain days, anyway—friend. “Vernon let me in, I hope that’s all right.”

“I could have sworn I told him to stop letting unsavory fellows into the house,” Steve said, turning, with a smile half playing on his lips.

“That cannot explain how you are here, harassing this lovely lady,” James said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh boys, I wish you did not fight,” Sarah Rogers interrupted Steve before he could form his retort.

“Ma, if we did not fight, you would not recognize us,” Steve said. He watched James clear the path across the room and bend to his mother. His mother beamed up at him, tilting her face up to receive a chaste kiss on the cheek. “That is Bucky’s specialty.”

“One of a few dozen, at least,” Bucky said, with a grin.

He took his top hat off between his hands, and nearly threw himself into the French arm chair closest to the fire. It was all a little dramatic, but his brown curls flopped a bit into his face and by the time he was settled, he had to reach up to push them out of his eyes. It was silly enough that Steve had to bite back a grin. He would not be admitting his fondness for the other man this day or on any day forward, because any sign of weakness was enough for Bucky to mercilessly tease him about for the next three to six months of their dreadful friendship. Acquaintanceship. Whatever they were.

“That seems an overestimate,” Steve muttered and Bucky gave him a wink before turning back to Sarah.

“You did not answer my question, Madam,” Bucky said. “Did you not marry for love?”

It was bold, to be sure, to ask Sarah Rogers about Joseph Rogers. Steve’s father had passed away from pneumonia one chilled spring day in 1880, suddenly and without warning, and Sarah had never quite recovered. Steve worried about her, but so did Bucky, and it was for that reason, perhaps, that Bucky took the liberties he did.

Today must have been a good day, because Sarah smiled and for a moment, the years melted away from her face to reveal the beautiful woman she had been before grief had taken its toll.

“Oh yes,” Sarah said. “We were much in love.”

“There, then,” Steve said. He finally came away from the window to sit in the chaise opposite both his mother and his friend. “You cannot fault Peggy her own story.”

Sarah looked as though she were about to tell Steve just how much she could, in fact, fault Peggy Carter for falling in love, but Bucky, still sprawled in a rather undignified lounge on his chair, spoke first.

“I cannot believe your meddling came to some good,” he said, looking at Steve.

Steve grinned.

“You can never believe that anything I do comes to any sort of good,” he said. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Not at all,” Bucky said. “Your ideas are almost always terrible.”

“Tell that to Peggy,” Steve said. If he sounded smug, it was because he was feeling smug. “And Angie. Who are to be very happily wed in one day’s time. Thanks to me. Is that why you’re here by the way?”

“Yes,” Bucky said. “Peggy invited me herself, in fact.”

“I told her not to,” Steve said, grimly. “No one ever listens to me.”

Bucky threw a pillow at Steve’s head, which would have made contact if Steve had not ducked just in time. The two of them burst into laughter while in her chair, Sarah Rogers, made a loud, distressed kind of sound.

“I wish that no one would listen to you!” she said, trying to be heard over the two boys. “Then she would not be getting married and no one would be leaving us!”

“She will just be moving to Brooklyn, Ma,” Steve said, once he had finished catching his breath.

Across from him, Bucky looked flushed, bright-eyed, and mischievous.

“Brooklyn!” Sarah Rogers exclaimed. She looked across the room and out the window, with no little despondence. “She might as well be leaving the country.”

*

The day that Margaret Carter married Angela Martinelli, New York’s high society breathed a sigh of relief. For one, the Autumn calendar had been so busy that no one had held so much as a formal gathering or a dance or any occasion to be lavish in nearly a month’s time. For another, the weather had been rainy and dreadful for weeks leading up to the festivities; but the day of their wedding dawned soothing and clear, with the barest chill in the air and the sun bright in the sky.

Sarah Rogers had been more than happy to open the Rogers estate for the occasion, even if she did not approve of the occasion herself, strictly speaking. Still, Peggy was like a daughter to her and she could not well say no when her son had taken her hands and asked.

Steve and Peggy and Angie had worked for weeks to prepare the estate to host a wedding. Steve had not previously had an expertise on candles, silks, flowers, or perfumes and, in fact, he could not say that he was an expert even now, but Brookfield shimmered happily under the weight of soft cloth and ribbons, china patterns, and ornate flower arrangements. As Peggy leaned forward to thread a white Freesia into Steve’s boutonniere, she looked resplendent, happy.

“Ma is cross with me,” Steve said. He smiled down at her—the mere two inches he could boast of—and inhaled her perfume—something sharp and floral.

Peggy leaned forward again, adjusting the flower.

“Oh, I heard. She was not so pleased with me either.”

“I told her Brooklyn isn’t so far away,” Steve said. “It’s only a rail ride or a streetcar or a boat on a nice day.”

“I’m certain I will be in Manhattan just as often as I ever was,” Peggy agreed. She finished and took a step back to admire her work. “Oh, you look so handsome, Steve.”

Steve warmed and gave her a crooked smile.

“That’s what I tried to tell her,” he said. “Well, about Manhattan—not about how handsome I look.”

Peggy laughed and he reached forward to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. She smiled up at him, soft and fond. It was a smile he had grown to love and expect; one as familiar to him as his own mother’s. Suddenly, a feeling shifted in his chest—sharp and jarring.

Margaret Carter was ten years older than Steve. He had never had a governess, but mostly because he had always had a Peggy. She had helped care for Steve since she was a child and, as a result, he had grown up with her on the estate, less a ward and more a big sister. Peggy was Steve’s closest confidante; his friend; his family. To not have her nearby…

“Oh god,” he said, quietly. “Maybe Ma was right. This is a mistake. What’s Brooklyn got that we don’t have here, Peg?”

“A home of my own,” Peggy said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “And my wife. Almost.”

“Sure, her,” Steve said, not sounding convinced. This was the terrible part of being right. Peggy’s great love was Steve’s great loss. It was enough for him to want to throw a tantrum.

“I love her very much,” Peggy said, softly. She pressed a gloved hand to Steve’s cheek and pressed a red-lipped kiss to his other. “And I shall have you to thank for it, always.”

“Me and my big mouth,” Steve said, petulantly.

Peggy laughed again, a warm, lovely sound. Her mouth, rimmed in bright rouge, curved up into a fond smile and her brown eyes, lined lightly with kohl, sparkled. She looked a vision of happiness, loveliness incarnate.

**art:** Peggy Carter, lovely and ready for her wedding; **art by:** nalonzoo

She straightened and stepped back, letting Steve inspect her carefully one more time.

Her white gown was simple down the front, with sleeves that ballooned dramatically at the shoulders. The neck of her dress was high, with lace and tasteful cut outs adorning her throat. Peggy had pearls at her ears—given to her by Sarah—and pearls at her throat and wrists—given to her by Steve. She had her perfect, brown curls pinned back, and a white birdcage veil, dotted with more pearls, settled at a slant on the right side of her head. Margaret Carter looked every bit the wealth she did not have, but deserved.

“You look a vision, Peggy,” Steve said. His voice caught on the word, emotion stuck in his throat, like a thorn.

“You don’t look half bad yourself, Rogers,” Peggy said. This time, when she adjusted Steve’s lapel, she sounded watery.

“You already said that,” Steve said, twisting his mouth in a smile. He took her hands between his colder ones. “Come, my old friend. Let’s get you married.”

“First me,” Peggy said, with a grin. “Then you.”

That finally made Steve laugh.

“Not a chance,” he said, and offered Peggy his arm.

*

Peggy Carter and Angie Martinelli married on September 15, 1890, at 2 in the afternoon, first in a small church ceremony, and then in a slightly less intimate and wildly joyous event at Brookfield estate.

Steve gave away his oldest friend and when she and the bride kissed, even the most reluctant of hearts was moved to some subtle tears shed into kerchiefs that were as swiftly tucked away as they were pulled out. Mostly, it was Steve dabbing his eyes when he thought no one was looking and once or twice, being caught out by Bucky or Natasha, who, true to form, grinned at him and indicated he would be hearing about this later.

It hardly even mattered, because by the time the brides re-entered Brookfield, the music was on, the windows were thrown open, and everyone who was anyone—or, at least, everyone that Sarah Rogers had allowed Steve to invite—was laughing and nibbling on canapes.

“A job well done,” Clint Barton was saying, a sunny smile on his face, either because he was delighted to see Steve or because he was three flutes deep into champagne.

“An adequate job,” Bucky amended, with a smirk.

“A job, anyway,” Natasha added, smiling at Steve over her own champagne.

“Hey,” Clint frowned at her, to which she glared up at him, if not daggers, then at least a suitably sharp paring knife.

Steve rolled his eyes and loosened his bow tie. He had already lost his hat sometime in between coming back inside and being dragged off to a corner and forced to listen to Tony Stark ramble about the merits of electricity and the electric cars he had been helping design for the better part of the last year.

“Here.” Natasha stopped wishing death upon Bucky’s compatriot long enough to hand Steve a glass of champagne himself. “To go with your tears. Which you definitely shed and which I definitely saw.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” Steve said, pointing at his ear and grinning. “Bad reception over the telephone.”

He took the alcohol though, with a warm thanks.

“So they’re moving to Brooklyn?” Bucky asked. He settled comfortably next to Steve, both of them leaning against a high table that had been set up for the express purpose of eating and mingling together.

Next to them, Clint had said something stupid enough to earn Natasha’s ire and the two of them were arguing again.

“I don’t see why they have to, when Manhattan has everything to offer,” Steve said. He frowned at Clint and Natasha. “Should we stop them?”

Bucky looked briefly over at his friend and Steve’s friend and must have determined they were in no danger of physically harming one another because he shrugged.

“Manhattan is good fun, but there’s more space out in Brooklyn and it’s much more affordable to someone not of means.”

Steve’s frown deepened and plucked a canapé from a servant passing by.

“I’m not sure why that matters so much,” he said. “We’ll provide for her, of course. We always have. It’s much more important for them to be nearby, as Peggy always has been.”

“They’re not your playthings, Steve,” Bucky said, with enough admonishment to prickle at Steve, but not enough to make a difference. “Anyway, it’s nice to own your own things, your own home. Don’t you think Peggy has earned that chance?”

“She could own a home right by us,” Steve declared, chewing aggressively on a mixture he could not quite name, but which he was certain involved a vegetable of some kind. “No one is stopping her!”

“I just said—” Bucky stared at Steve and then rolled his eyes. “You’ll listen to no one, will you?”

“Well I certainly won’t listen to you, at least,” Steve smirked.

“As your senior, I must insist you respect me,” Bucky said, adjusting his hat.

Steve watched with bemusement as Bucky frowned and took it off his head. Underneath, his brown curls lay squashed to his forehead.

“You look ridiculous,” Steve said and reached forward—and up, what with the handful of inches Bucky had on him—to run his fingers through the other man’s hair.

Bucky made a face, but stayed still while Steve fixed his hair.

“There,” he said and Bucky gave him a wry smile.

“Thanks.”

“Anyway,” Steve said, ignoring him, “you are just old enough to bother me with your old fashioned sentiments, but not so old enough that I feel compelled to listen to you.”

“You do not listen to anyone,” Bucky repeated, dryly. “So I won’t be too offended.”

“That cannot be true,” Steve said, frowning into his champagne, and the look on Bucky’s face was so exhausted that he had to laugh out loud.

Bucky, at twenty-nine years of age, liked to laud his seniority and wisdom over Steve when it suited him, but Steve, having more or less grown up with the son of his father’s business partner, remembered more than his fair share of James Buchanan Barnes eating dirt. It did not leave a lot of room for him to do much more than pretend to listen when Bucky was prattling on about morality or some failure of Steve’s that only Bucky himself seemed to see.

“They’re happy, anyway,” Bucky said, choosing to ignore Steve’s nonsense and watch the brides as they took to the middle of the dance floor. “I’ve never seen Peggy so happy.”

“I guess that is nice,” Steve admitted. He smiled warmly over his glass and Bucky, next to him, nudged his shoulder.

“If you’re not careful, you’ll be next,” his old friend said. “All matchmaking and merriment until you find yourself caught in your own web of emotion.”

That made Steve nearly choke. He sputtered over his champagne, and laughed. He turned to Bucky, leaned his head forward. Bucky, raising an eyebrow, did the same. When he was within earshot, Steve looked into the grey of Bucky’s eyes and smiled brightly.

“Not a chance,” he said. “I plan to never marry.”

  
**art:** Bucky and Steve, leaning close, while Steve tells Bucky he will not marry; **art by:** nalonzoo

“What, you’ll live your entire life like a bachelor?” Bucky asked.

“I have everything I could want here,” Steve said. “What use do I have to marry someone?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Bucky said. He was still close, but his mouth quirked up in amusement. “Love? Companionship? Someone to share a laugh with?”

“If I keep looking at your face, I’ll need no more reason to laugh,” Steve grinned and Bucky shoved his shoulder.

“You lunkhead,” he said, with exasperation.

Steve straightened, but still with a smile. He tipped back his champagne, finishing the flute in two gulps, before setting it on the table behind them.

“There is a time and place for love,” Steve said. “But for me, that place is not now and that time might never be. So until then, shall we dance?”

“No thank you,” Bucky said, straightening his jacket. “I have more than enough experience with having my toes trodden on, thanks to you.”

“Mean,” Steve said, sticking a tongue out. Then, he grasped Natasha by the upper arm. “Bucky is boring me and I want to dance. Are you and Clint done berating one another?”

“Not nearly,” Natasha said, her eyes narrowing at the other blond.

Clint looked confused, which, to be fair, was not unusual for him.

“You can fight one another after we’ve danced,” Steve insisted. Natasha looked dubious about that, but Steve tugged on a gold-beaded sleeve and eventually she, like everyone, gave in.

“I don’t know why James insists on bringing him,” Natasha said, taking Steve’s hand as the music started up around them. Of all of his acquaintances, Natasha was the only one other than Peggy that Steve could claim to have any height over. That her personality added at least half a foot to her actual height made no real difference. She had to look up at him as they talked and that was what mattered.

“To torture you, undoubtedly,” Steve said. “Same as he insists on torturing me.”

“You seem to get along with him fine,” Natasha said.

“With Bucky or Clint?”

“Both,” Natasha said, flatly.

“You have not been paying nearly enough attention,” Steve grinned, his hand sliding to Natasha’s beaded back. “What were you two arguing about this time anyway?”

“Tennis.”

Steve blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

The two spun as the Waltz sped up, their breaths leaving them for the moment.

Steve dipped Natasha as best as he could and when she came back up, there was a flush across her cheeks.

“He was against, I was for,” she said.

“How is that worth arguing about?” Steve wondered.

“How is anything you and James argue about worth arguing about?” Natasha retorted.

They spun again.

“I don’t hate Bucky,” Steve pointed out. “He just has all of the wrong opinions.”

“Yes, well,” Natasha said. “Barton has all of the wrong opinions _and_ I hate him. It must be his lucky day.”

“I don’t envy him that at all,” Steve said.

Natasha threw her head back and laughed, all bright, white teeth, and red hair piled to the back of her head. It would be a dazzling sight if Steve hadn’t known her long enough to fear her just enough to be immune from her beauty.

Still, it made him smile and his heart rate picked up as the music did. Her hand grazed his shoulder and his settled at a proper distance down her back and the two of them spun and spun as New York’s high society danced in celebration.  
  
  
“Oh, I’ll visit all the time,” Peggy said, leaning forward to kiss Steve on the cheek. Her lipstick was much faded by then, her curls falling out from where they had been pinned up. Her face was flushed, as was her bride’s, the two of them the very visions of health and happiness.

The party waited on the steps of Brookfield as the streetcar was brought around.

“I will be holding you to that,” Steve said, a bit watery. “You know how Ma gets.”

“Yes, of course,” Peggy laughed. Her gloved hand lingered on Steve’s warm cheek. “It’s Sarah who will miss my companionship.”

“I will miss you,” Steve admitted then. He wrapped his arms around his oldest friend and pressed a kiss to her hair. “It won’t be nearly the same here without you.”

“You will manage,” Peggy said, smiling as they broke apart. “And if you don’t—well, just hop on a ferry and come down to Brooklyn!”

The face Steve made at that must have been ridiculous enough to make all of the wedding party laugh around him.

The streetcar pulled up, white streamers and ribbons and a few cans tied to the back.

Angie offered Peggy her hand and Peggy took it, kissing her lovely bride once on the mouth as she did so. The two descended the stairs and the party around them cheered loudly, throwing rice and soft pink flower petals.

“It is beautiful, you have to admit,” Bucky said, close to Steve’s ear.

Steve grabbed a small handful of rice and pelted Bucky with it.

“I have little intention of marrying,” Steve said. “Ever. At all.”

Bucky grinned at that, rice and flower petals in his hair and the afternoon sunlight catching on his gleaming brown curls.

*

Peggy’s departure from Brookfield left a grey cloud over its inhabitants. Sarah Rogers had spent a little more than a week feeling under the weather and in fear of feeling under the weather and Steve had spent a little more than a week taking care of his mother and listlessly calling in on their society friends and his father’s old office. Steve hadn’t taken any official position at the Rogers-Barnes Steel Company, but then he hadn’t needed to. Joseph Rogers had sold his share in the company a year before his death and left investments and options for his family that Steve himself could not decipher, although their bookkeeper, thankfully, could.

The company itself had gone on without him. Although it was now called the Manhattan Steel Company, George Barnes had remained as a director and majority shareholder. While Bucky did some bookkeeping for the company when his father needed it—or when he was otherwise bored—Steve had never had the mind for business that his father had. Still, George had always left that door open for him, out of respect to his former partner. All that really meant was that Steve paid a visit to the office once a month or so, just so no one would forget him.

He had finished his visit to the office and, hat in hand, taken the steps down, two at a time, to the bustling brick street of lower Manhattan. It was an unusually warm September day—the kind that had Steve wiping the back of his hand against his damp forehead and his lungs wheezing just a little. He crooked a finger in between his stiff collar and his neck, pulling at it to let in some air, attempting some relief from the moisture hanging thick on his skin.

His head spun, a little alarmingly. Steve hadn’t had an asthma attack in over a year and he did not think so far from home was the appropriate place for a reappearance. Gritting his teeth, fingers crushing his hat, he waited on swaying feet for the electric streetcar to pull up on the rails.

He let out a low breath of relief as he paid his fare and climbed on. The seats were mostly full—surprising for this time of day—with only one seat open near the back. Steve wouldn’t have cared if Jack the Ripper himself were his seatmate. Luckily, the black man with the bowler cap seemed kind enough and much less like a serial killer than Steve could have expected.

  
**art:** Steve on the streetcar, next to a black gentleman in a bowling cap; **art by:** nalonzoo

“Are you all right?” the man looked up at him, worriedly.

“Do you mind—?” Steve nodded at the empty seat and the man shook his head and scooted over farther so that Steve could collapse onto the bench next to him. “Just having—a little trouble breathing. The heat. I just need—a moment.”

“That’s no good,” the man said with a frown. “We could switch spots. The window might help.”

Steve shook his head for a moment, but when his surroundings started swimming, he took in a sharp breath and nodded.

“Actually—”

“Please,” the man said, getting up quickly.

Steve switched places with him and immediately leaned his forehead against the window pane. The motion outside the streetcar wasn’t particularly helpful, but the light breeze coming in through the open window on top was. Steve took in a lungful of air, swallowed it down, and took in another.

It took a minute longer than he would have preferred, but eventually his pulse stopped racing and, finally, his breathing came easier. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and turned back to his companion.

“Thank you,” Steve said. “Sometimes, on days like this—”

“You don’t have to explain to me,” the man said, shaking his hand. His kind face crinkled into a warm smile. “I have a sister who has asthma.”

Steve nodded, grateful.

The man made a motion for Steve to wait a moment and then dug in the leather satchel next to him for something. He pulled out a glass bottle, filled nearly to the top with water.

“If you don’t mind sharing,” he said, offering it to Steve.

As flushed and overheated as he felt, Steve was only too happy to accept.

“Thank you,” he said, warmly. He took the bottle and extended a hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“Samuel Wilson,” the man said, taking Steve’s hand and shaking it. “But you can call me Sam.”

Sam gave Steve a smile—wide and kind, with crinkles at the corners that Steve was immediately fond of.

“Where are you going, Sam Wilson?” Steve asked, unscrewing the cap and taking a deep gulp of the lukewarm water.

“Uptown,” Sam said. “To Colonel Fury’s estate. It’s by—”

“Park, just a few avenues over from me,” Steve said, nearly choking on his water in enthusiasm. He started coughing and Sam looked concerned, hesitant for a moment, before giving in and thumping Steve on the back to help him through it. “Thanks—sorry. Colonel Nicholas Fury, right?”

“That’s him,” Sam said, with a smile. “He’s my uncle, in a way. I’ve been in Boston for a while, but he’s been needing a little more help these days.”

“I saw about his eye,” Steve said, seriously.

“He’s had that for years,” Sam said, scratching his jaw. “Actually, I can’t seem to remember how he got it.”

“He’s a little scary,” Steve admitted. It wasn’t often that he was intimidated by anyone in societal circles, but Colonel Fury had a stern way about him that was not dissimilar to a teacher Steve had had growing up named Colonel Phillips, who, strangely, was not taken at all with Steve’s charm.

“Yeah, that’s my uncle,” Sam grinned. “As mean as he is inscrutable. But that’s only if you know him.”

Steve took another few mouthfuls and, feeling much better, capped the bottle and handed it back to the other man.

“How long are you here for, then?”

Sam put the bottle away and re-latched his satchel. He looked thoughtful, but ultimately shrugged.

“As long as he needs me, I guess,” he said. “I don’t have much to my name, so when that’s done, I’ll have to find business elsewhere.”

“Do you have a trade?” Steve asked, curious. The streetcar pulled in to a stop just by Grand Central. Half of the car emptied then, but there was a line of people waiting to replace them.

“I studied business,” Sam said, looking out the window toward the sweeping railway station. Steve saw Grand Central on such a frequent basis that he always forgot what a sight it was to anyone who didn’t have it in their metaphorical backyard. “Some engineering. I’m good with my head, not bad with numbers, but mostly I’m not afraid of a hard day’s work. I figure when I need to go, Colonel Fury can find me somewhere good to be.”

Steve nodded, wondering briefly what that would be like—to not have some kind of safety net to catch him if he fell. If he absolutely had to make his way by virtue of trade or skill alone, he wasn’t certain what he could even do other than, perhaps, argue his way into his position. Perhaps he should consider being an attorney.

“Well, until then, you are welcome here,” Steve said, smiling as the streetcar started up again. “In Manhattan and at Brookfield. I will be glad to have a friend so closeby.”

Sam grinned and said likewise and the two of them chatted amiably, easily even, all the way through Midtown, until the streetcar pulled up Fifth Avenue and they had to part ways.

*


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about Sam was that he was certainly not of means, but he had the demeanor and education of one far above his station, which mostly meant that when Steve leaned in to whisper something sharp to him, Sam would snicker and lean right back. Steve enjoyed this very much, because there was an ease and freedom between them that he had seldom experienced with anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh thank you so much for your warm reception and kind comments! I see all of you Jane Austen enthusiasts out there and from the bottom of my heart, I would like you to know--you are valid. Also Mr. Knightley is a god-tier Austen hero.

**PART II.**

It wasn’t difficult to fall into easy companionship with Sam. The other man was everything that Steve enjoyed in a friend—warm and kind, thoughtful, spirited, and, above all, very funny. It did not take long at all for Steve to discover the true difference in their stations; although Colonel Fury came from a bit of old wealth, Sam and his sister Clara had been wards of the Colonel’s who had grown up with distant relations and weren’t actually related to the man himself. Sam did not stand to inherit anything from Fury, which he was good-natured about, particularly since Fury was taking care of his expenses while he lived with and cared for the older man.

It was not so dissimilar to how Steve stayed and took care of his mother, if you took out the whole fortune aspect of it. Anyway, Steve did not mind one bit, because Sam was always nearby and was happy to call on him when he was not busy with his uncle and, in the opposite, whenever Steve became tired of being a ghost in his own home, he could walk up the street and knock on Colonel Fury’s door to steal Sam for the afternoon.

What they did together was not wholly describable or, at least, Steve could never properly recount to his mother or to Natasha—on the occasion she crossed from the West side of the island toward the East—what he and Sam got up to, only that they spent much of their time wandering Manhattan and that a good portion of that time was spent clutching at one another and laughing at this or that.

The thing about Sam was that he was certainly not of means, but he had the demeanor and education of one far above his station, which mostly meant that when Steve leaned in to whisper something sharp to him, Sam would snicker and lean right back. Steve enjoyed this very much, because there was an ease and freedom between them that he had seldom experienced with anyone else.

Sometimes, the two of them would pay visits together to the Manhattan Steel office or take a walk up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which Joseph Rogers had—with other families of means—helped open, thereby allowing Steve to now hold a trusteeship in the museum and the Rogers family to be permanently ingrained into the building’s facade. Sam would listen patiently to Steve as they walked through the gallery and he excitedly talked about each of the exhibits—even those he knew nothing about. Sam was not particularly keen to art, but he was keen to Steve, so he was a good sport about sitting on benches and asking Steve the correct questions and tilting his head and making faces whenever Steve said anything outlandish or, likely, made up—which was not _not_ common.

“You like art more than anyone I am aware of,” Sam said one day—a cold and dreary October afternoon when the two of them were lazily making the rounds. Steve kept stopping at the few new exhibits that had opened since the last time they had come together.

  
**art:** Steve and Sam standing in front of _Boating_ (1874) by Edouard Manet at the Met; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve turned from a new addition from Edouard Manet that had his pulse racing. He was nearly buzzing to talk about it. In truth, he could have stood for another hour, at least, staring at the small, almost jarring brushstrokes and how the colors blended together in a way that wasn’t as abstract as some before him. It always made his fingers itch, to come to the Met and stand before paintings like this, as though he could somehow siphon the genius of the masters before him into his own, less superior attempts at art.

“No one in my family is an artist,” Steve said, fidgeting with his hat between his fingers. “I do not claim to be much of one myself, but—”

“I do not think you need to claim to be one to be one,” Sam said, smiling at his friend. He was seated on a bench, slowly peeling an orange as Steve fluttered around the gallery. “Or to have the soul of one.”

“That is very nice of you to say,” Steve said, with a laugh. “I’m afraid you think too highly of my soul, in that case.”

“I am not a nice sort of fellow,” Sam grinned. He took a slice of the orange and popped it in his mouth. “Anyway, I’m not lying. Have you considered taking classes? Or teaching? I’m sure there are much better students out there than I.”

“That would not take very much effort,” Steve said, dryly, and Sam choked on his orange for the effort.

“Hey!”

Steve grinned and spun on his heels. He moved from Manet to a small sea landscape. He leaned forward to read the card next to the canvas. _Sea at L’Estaque_. Paul Cezanne. It was also new to the gallery and Steve frowned, getting lost in thought for a while, before turning back to Sam.

“I guess I could,” he hedged, finally taking a seat next to Sam. The stone bench under him was cold and he shivered a little, the damp from the day sinking through his jacket and his white buttoned shirt. “Do you think it’s a good idea? It seems...frivolous.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Sam started and gave him a little nudge. “But most of what you do is frivolous.”

“Hey!” Steve said this time, but Sam’s expression made it clear he meant no harm by it.

“I don’t mean to insult,” he said. “But isn’t that what high society is, in a way? You’re either the head of industry, or you’re spending the wealth of whatever you’ve accrued. It’s not...a bad thing, or at least not necessarily. But if you don’t have to think about anything else, then all you’re really left with is frivolity.”

Well that didn’t exactly make Steve feel _better_. He held a hand out and Sam peeled away another slice of the orange and put it in the center of his palm.

“Anyway, art isn’t frivolous,” Sam said. “Not really. Creating it isn’t and neither is teaching it. It’s noble. Cultured. And beautiful, besides.”

Steve had to admit that he did admire beauty. He could even admit he liked the idea of creating it; there was a romanticism to it that made his chest flutter.

“I’ll think about it,” Steve said, finally. He stretched his legs out in front of him and stood up. “I’m hungry. Do you want to come for dinner? Ma would be delighted. And worried. She doesn’t think you dress warm enough.”

Sam chuckled and followed suit. He found a garbage can to tilt his orange peel into and replaced the hat on top of his head.

“I’d love to, but the Colonel has some business for me,” he said.

“Business?” Steve frowned, looking up at his friend.

“A new opportunity, I think? Something about railroad cars with refrigeration,” Sam said with a shrug and an easy grin. “Probably boring, but I like that he values my opinion.”

“I value your opinion too,” Steve said, and only sounded a little petulant.

“I know,” Sam laughed. “And I appreciate that. Tomorrow? Or Friday, I’ll come for lunch after the Colonel goes for his morning walk.”

“I’ll let Ma know,” Steve said, warmly.

The two embraced and stopped by the door to pick up their umbrellas. By the time they stepped down from the Met onto Fifth Avenue, the skies had opened up and the two of them had to part, each rushing through the cold water to their respective homes.

  
The weather took a turn for the chillier as they approached the middle of October. The rain let up for long enough that the umbrellas were put away, but the sharp bite in the air had most of the city exchange them for thicker overcoats and, on a few days, furs that smelled of moth balls and dried lavender.

“Ma, I’m going to visit Tony today,” Steve said, tucking himself into his favorite wool overcoat and a red scarf that Bucky had given him the previous Christmas. “Would you like to come with me?”

“No, I could not,” Sarah Rogers said, sitting in her favorite chair. Florence, their housekeeper, had refreshed the fire and, when Sarah had complained of a draft, had closed all of the windows tightly and tucked a warm blanket around her. She was in the kitchen now, preparing tea, while Sarah sat with a book. “I’m much too cold today. Would you feel my forehead? I’m positive I must be coming down with a cold.”

Steve doubted that, but he loved his mother and he could not quite begrudge her her paranoia. He crossed the room and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead for a few seconds.

“Oh, is it awful?” Sarah Rogers asked, looking up at him. “Do I have a fever?”

“Ma, you are perfectly fine,” Steve said, smiling down at her. He reached forward and tucked away a few waves of delicate blonde hair behind her ear and kissed his mother on her forehead. “Have some tea and if that does not warm you up, I’ll have Florence make you some soup.”

“I do love soup,” his mother admitted.

“Yes, I know,” Steve said, straightening. “That was half of my meals growing up.”

“There is nothing wrong with a hearty broth, Steven,” his mother said, settling her son with a look that only made him smile broader. Sarah Rogers was nervous and suffered her fair share of anxiety, but Steve had inherited at least part of his wit and quick thinking from her. His sense of humor too, probably.

“I’ll be back after dark,” he said. “You know how Tony likes to talk. Once you get him started, it’s impossible to get him to stop.”

Sarah Rogers muttered something about _like father, like son_ , but Steve was not familiar enough with the reputation of Howard Stark to respond one way or another. Instead, he tucked his scarf in, stepped out the door, and caught the electric streetcar down.

  
Sam had visited Tony with Steve once before, so, at the very least, he didn’t seem nearly as perturbed as he could have when Tony’s door was answered by someone with a live bird on either of his shoulders.

“Uh,” Sam said, blinking.

That was about the level of perturbed that was appropriate, Steve felt.

“I am not going to ask,” Steve said out loud, making eye contact with the man. “Can you tell Mr. Stark that Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson have come to call?”

“Certainly, sir,” the man with the birds said. He opened the door and stepped aside. “Shall you wait in the parlor while I fetch Mr. Stark?”

“Depends,” Sam muttered under his breath. “Are there more birds in there?”

Steve jabbed Sam in the side and Sam wheezed.

“Parlor is great,” Steve said.

He and Sam followed the man through the main foyer of Stark Manor, passing a coat room and a smaller dining area and taking a sharp left into a room that was so incredibly large and of such grandeur that Sam gripped Steve’s elbow.

“You’ve already been here!” Steve hissed at him.

“Do you think one time is enough?” Sam asked, staring around at the parlor a bit wildly. “To take all of this in?”

He had a point, Steve supposed. If he wasn’t such a frequent visitor of the Manor, he supposed he would have been a bit slack-jawed as well. Stark Manor was twice the size of Brookfield and three times as gaudy. The parlor was exquisitely—and perhaps overbearingly—adorned, with gold molding along the ceiling and the walls and large, ornate rugs on the tiled floor that had clearly been brought over from Persia. The chaises, sitting tables, and French arm chairs were equally decorated with gleaming gold paint, and once they looked up, the gold and crystal chandelier that took up half of the ceiling could not be missed.

It was a bit much, for a parlor, but then again, the Starks had always been a bit much. Something about competing with the Vanderbilts, Steve thought, not that Tony’s mother would ever have admitted to such a gauche thing.

He and Sam picked the least ostentatious pair of chairs to sit in, while awaiting the arrival of their host.

It wasn’t too long and this, primarily, they could tell because within minutes, Tony Stark’s loud and borderline neurotic voice came booming from the hallway.

“I don’t see why there has to be the competition!” he was saying loudly, to someone. “Railways, shipping, steel, banking—they’re all good industries! It seems to me we could combine all of them and have one company to help with it all.”

“That’s a monopoly, Tony,” an exasperated voice replied. “That is called a monopoly and it is bad.”

“Bad?” Tony said, his voice ratcheting up higher. “Bad! According to whom? I’d like to meet the person who prized idiocy over efficiency, who couldn’t see the benefit of having one, quality-controlled, enterprise that—”

“The United States government,” the voice said, speaking over him. “That’s who. If you have a problem, please take it up with Senator John Sherman.”

“You think I won’t,” Tony muttered and then both companions appeared in the doorway. Tony stopped, mid-sentence and mid-hand gesture and blinked across the parlor at Steve and Sam. “Rogers! Steve! And the other one...what was his name again? Something something Wilbur.”

“Wilson,” Sam said, raising his voice, and an eyebrow. “Sam Wilson.”

“Right, that’s what I said,” Tony said, grinning. He stepped through the doorway, his black shoes clacking against the neatly tiled floor. “Mr. Wilbur, so glad to see you back!”

“Tony, stop being an idiot,” his companion said. His companion, a man about Tony’s age, was as dark as Sam, and at least half a foot taller than Tony. He was straight-backed, as though holding himself with military precision, and his pants and jacket were crisp and clean. He looked like a man worth his dignity, which, for all that New York high society was, Steve could not always say he found among his peers.

“He knows I’m joking,” Tony said. He gestured behind him at Sam. “You know I’m joking right, Wilb—son! Wilson.”

Sam looked about as borderline exasperated as Steve felt, every day of his life with Tony Stark.

“Yes, I know you’re joking, Mr. Stark,” he said. He rose, which meant that Steve had to as well.

“It’s been some weeks,” Steve said. “How are you, Tony? And do you want to introduce your companion?”

“Want is a strong term, but I suppose that’s what—” Tony waved his hand vaguely, “high society dictates. This is Colonel James Rhodes. You can call him Rhodey.”

Steve must have given a skeptical look to Rhodey, because the other man looked marginally less exasperated and slightly more amused than he had even a minute ago.

“It’s fine,” Rhodey said, taking Steve’s outstretched hand and shaking it. “He’s like this. I’ve known him all my life and you’d think I’d be used to it, but I don’t think it’s something you get used to.”

“What do you do instead?” Steve asked, with a grin, immediately taking a liking to the older man.

Rhodey sighed and cast his friend with a long-suffering look.

“Bear it.”

“You’re going to make a terrible impression of me onto Wilbur here!” Tony said in protest and Steve only barely held back rolling his eyes.

Sam, who was by far the better of the two of them, gave a half-hearted sort of laugh and shook Rhodey’s hand.

“Another colonel?” Sam said, grasping Rhodey’s arm as they shook; a gentleman’s handshake. “My uncle is one as well. Colonel Nicholas Fury.”

Rhodey let out a low whistle at that, and a sly grin.

“Fury, huh?” he said. “I know him well enough. He has quite the reputation in the army.”

“I bet,” Sam said, grinning and stepping back.

“His nephew anything like him?” Rhodey asked Sam.

“We’ll say all the good parts are the same,” Sam said, mouth curved up. “The rest...well we’re not relatives of blood.”

That made Rhodey laugh, which put Steve more at ease as well.

“I don’t like when people are laughing without me,” Tony said loudly, interrupting the merriment. “Now, who wants some sandwiches?”

  
There were a few unavoidable truths about Tony Stark: that he liked to hear himself talk more than he liked to do almost anything else, that he was the only son of Howard Stark of the Stark Railway Company, meaning he likely had more wealth than Queen herself and certainly more than the President, that he was a perennial bachelor—perhaps not of his own making, but a bachelor all the same—and that while a generous and warm-hearted host, he was also an interminably grating one. None of this Steve said out loud, but his patience sure was tried every time Tony Stark opened his mouth and started talking about his former ward, Loki Laufeyson.

“I mean don’t get me wrong,” Tony was saying, flapping his hand over a salmon and cucumber sandwich. “I’m sure others like their wards just fine, but as far as that whole thing goes, we by far found the best one. He’s quite accomplished. I checked in on him a few months ago—well I didn’t personally, I couldn’t travel to Ithaca, obviously, I’m much too busy—but I did ask Jarvis to call him and ask how he’s been and what he’s been doing and the report was glowing.”

Steve listened with what he hoped was a mild expression on his face. He picked up his cup of tea—coffee made his heart race—and hid his boredom neatly behind the floral pattern. Likely they should have—as a gathered group of mostly young men—been drinking fingers of brandy and smoking cigar or something they would write about in a proper gentlemen’s book, but Tony Stark was unusual at best and anyway, his kitchen staff always made the best finger sandwiches.

“We did give him the best education Ithaca could provide, granted, but he’s writing philosophy and mapping the stars or planets or some such and apparently is quite accomplished at the piano.” Tony sounded as smug and pleased as he looked, which was only slightly ameliorated by him dunking his entire sandwich in his cup of coffee.

Rhodey gave him a look of pure disgust.

“Mapping stars,” Steve said, with what could not possibly be a strained expression on his face. He hoped his absolute lack of feeling did not fully reach his eyes, but he could not say for certain. “ _And_ planets. Wow.”

He elongated the word like: _wa-ao-oh_.

  
**art:** Steve, Sam, Rhodey, and Tony having tea, Steve looking mighty unimpressed; **art by:** nalonzooo

Next to him, Sam hid an amused smile behind his cup of coffee.

“He has a head for science,” Tony said, pleased by the acknowledgment. “And maths. And literature. Philosophy, of course.”

“Why doesn’t he open a school to himself?” Steve muttered into his tea cup and heard Sam choke next to him.

He looked up at Tony and blithely patted Sam’s back to help him through his fit.

“What was that?” Tony blinked, with a bright smile.

“That’s a lot of...accomplishment,” Steve said, quickly. “For one young man.”

“Well, he is being groomed,” Tony said, finding a tea biscuit from the tray to soak in his coffee.

“To take over?” Steve asked with a frown.

“No, no, of course not,” Tony said, waving the wet biscuit around.

“Hey!” next to him, Rhodey shielded himself from the droplets.

“That’s not possible, of course,” Tony said. “He’s just our ward. Or, was. He’s no longer _legally_ —well, but anyway, we raised him, basically speaking. So everything he has is owing to the Starks, although he has his talents to raise him. But you know, he’s not meant to _inherit_ anything. That would be against the—rules and whatnot.”

Next to him, Steve could feel Sam stiffen slightly, which was when Steve remembered that Sam was not in a dissimilar position himself.

“But you could name him your—heir,” Steve said. “If you had none born to you and—”

He stopped himself from saying something completely terrible like, _no one has ever born you long enough to want to be wed to you, wealth or not_.

“—he did a good enough job,” Rhodey added in, with a nod. He was the only one who was drinking alcohol, which Steve supposed was fair, if he was Tony’s closest friend and had to deal with him on a daily basis. “Or you liked him enough?”

Tony frowned, pressing his cup to his mouth. He looked troubled, as though, perhaps, the thought had never occurred to him.

“Huh.”

“Anyway, you’re always talking about how well he has a mind for engineering, so maybe he’ll go to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” Rhodey added to the conversation. He leaned forward in his armchair to select from an assortment of cookies. “And then you can pass your great railroad legacy off to someone you believe is worthy.”

Steve wasn’t sure what Loki Laufeyson _didn’t_ have a mind for, from the sounds of it, but at any rate, it looked as though Tony might have a fit himself if he had to think any more about someone simply taking his company from him.

“Well, until Tony magicks himself an heir or we see Loki in person,” Steve said, putting his tea cup down. “Sam and I must return. It’s getting late and Ma worries.”

Talk of wards and companies forgotten, the four men stood up, giving their thanks to Tony and making promises of getting together again soon. For his part, Tony continued rattling on about something or other that Steve promptly tuned out as he adjusted his hat and donned his overcoat.

“—I’ll tell you,” Tony said, clasping Steve’s shoulder and looking into the blues of his eyes.

“I...look forward to hearing it,” Steve said, blinking, not knowing at all what he was looking forward to.

Tony looked pleased at that and let go of his shoulder.

“What am I looking forward to?” Steve whispered quickly to Sam, the moment Rhodey distracted their host.

“Meeting a certain Cornell student who invented electricity, from what I understand,” Sam whispered back, his mouth quirked up into a grin.

“Oh no,” Steve said, in horror. “Am I in danger of that?”

“Better invent something exceptional, quickly,” Sam said, his grin fading to an amused smile, and stepped back.

Steve wracked his brain, trying to come up with an idea on the spot. Unfortunately, all he could think about was some mechanism by which he could stop his mouth from speaking before his brain had had a chance to catch up.

That, he thought, would not require so much an invention as a full on miracle.

  
Sam was quieter during the wait for the streetcar than he had been before.

It was well past dark, the chilly October evening turning into the much sharper nighttime cold. The two men stood huddled close together, their breaths coming out in little white puffs.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Steve asked, nudging Sam’s shoulder.

The gas lamp closest to them gave a bit of a flicker and Steve stared up at it until it became stable again.

“He’s right, you know,” Sam said, after a moment.

“Who?” Steve asked, confused.

Sam sighed and tucked a gloved hand into his pocket.

“Stark.”

“I wish you had not said that to me,” Steve said, making a face. “But go on. What is he right about?”

Sam’s mouth twisted, but the smile didn’t quite have the warmth of his usual. If anything, it exacerbated the worry in his brows.

“I can’t—we can’t just inherit things like companies and wealth,” Sam said. “I suppose there’s a chance someone will adjust their will to give a bit of their income to a ward, but that’s not a guarantee, really. Most have to distinguish themselves in some way, show a skill, or be connected to a job.”

Steve frowned at that.

“Colonel Fury—your uncle,” Steve said. “He wouldn’t—?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, looking up at the gas lamp. “I don’t think he means to. I don’t mind, don’t get me wrong. I have no expectations of inheritance—I’m not entitled to anything he or his estate have built. But that does leave me in a...precarious position. I’ll have to think about what to do.”

“What...to do?” Steve asked. He didn’t like the sound of that. Something gnawed at his stomach unpleasantly; an anxiety he couldn’t place.

“When he doesn’t need me anymore,” Sam said, sounding surprised. He looked at Steve as though this was obvious. “I told you I was only here to help him, Steve. When he no longer needs that help...I’ll have to either find a way of earning my means here or, if he connects me somewhere else, go there.”

“Somewhere else,” Steve repeated. He was growing a full stomach ache now. “He would send you somewhere else? Where? Sam, where would he send you?”

Without thinking about it, he had grasped Sam’s elbow.

“I’m not sure,” Sam admitted. “Chicago, maybe? There’s a lot happening there and his company is making good in-roads in that area.”

“Chicago,” Steve said loudly. The word itself felt distasteful in his mouth. “That’s so far away. What is in Chicago that isn’t here, in New York?”

“Oh, some things, I imagine,” Sam said, with a sad smile. “Opportunities, anyway.”

“That’s not,” Steve said, trying not to sputter. It didn’t quite work as smoothly as planned. His heart was now ticking up too, in addition to his stomach. He was growing fast unhappy and more than a little nervous. “Do you _want_ to go? To _Chicago_?”

“It is not my...first choice,” Sam admits. “Clara still lives in Boston and my friends, my home is here. I’ve only ever known this coast. To travel to the middle of the country…”

“Is madness!” Steve says, eyes widening. “That’s too far. Sam, you cannot leave me for _Chicago_. You’ve only just gotten here and I’ve grown too fond of you.”

That made Sam’s smile warm a little.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “You could always come with me. To Chicago.”

That was the most ridiculous thing Steve had ever heard. Not because of Sam, of course, but because the very _thought_ of him living anywhere other than New York was—not even a fantasy, it was unfathomable.

“Or,” Steve said, heart beating quickly. “We find a reason to keep you here. Some reason they could not possibly send you a way. A reason you must stay in New York, be given opportunity here.”

They heard a faint screech in the distance as the electric streetcar ran on the tracks toward them.

Sam turned toward Steve, curiosity written clear across his face. The lamp lit him up then and it struck Steve—how fond he was of the other man; how close they had gotten; and how unbearable it would be to lose him.

If he was to keep Sam here—if they were to thwart Colonel Fury’s will, they would need to come up with a plan. It would have to be quick and it would have to be smart and it would have to be infallible.

“Marriage,” Steve blurted out, saying the first thing that came to mind. “We must make you a marriage.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely dying at Steve's expression in the last illustration. Don't forget to show to show [nalonzooo](https://twitter.com/nalonzooo/status/1248616279709077505?s=20) some love!! Her art is. To DIE for.


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bottle exchanged hands again and Steve, his head buzzing pleasantly as the liquor slowly saturated his system, said the first thing he could think of. 
> 
> “Sam almost made the most disastrous match for himself.” 
> 
> Bucky raised an eyebrow and settled in with the bottle. 
> 
> “Oh, this is sure to be good,” he said. “Go on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, this is a FUN one.

**PART III.**

**WINTER.**

Winter in New York City always came when Steve least expected it. It seemed as though the chilled autumn air turned frigid overnight and Steve, being of poor circulation and sometimes poorer health, was not particularly pleased. He traded his autumnal overcoat for one that was heavier, with a fur overlay, and a warm, wool scarf that was so large on him that it nearly covered half of his face.

“I’m no expert on medicine, but do you think it’s possible for one’s face to slide off from cold?” Sam asked Steve as they waited for the streetcar. “Also, is there a reason we can’t go to the one that is just down the street?”

Steve’s hands were so cold they were nearly turned blue, but he could not tuck them into his pockets as his arms were full of the library books that he had dragged Sam along to go return. The Lenox Library was, in fact, just down the street from the two of them, but Steve, owing to his own brand of quirks and stubborn personality, preferred going all the way toward the East Village for the Astor’s collection. The Rogers’s had paid admission to both, of course, but while Sarah Rogers did not like to travel for her books, Steve enjoyed going across half the city to pick up new reading materials.

Well, usually. When his body wasn’t going numb from the cold.

“These aren’t from that library, Sam,” Steve said, his teeth chattering. It was only the beginning of November, but the day was the kind of blistering cold that the biting wind only made feel colder. Steve’s eyes watered and he could barely open them, assuming as he did, that the droplets had simply formed into crystals on his eyelashes.

“Far be it for me to comment on your wealth and how you spend your money, but you couldn’t have just taken the late fees and gone a day when hell hadn’t frozen over?” Sam asked. His voice was faint, carried off by the wind, but Steve could hear his teeth clacking together as well.

“I put it into my calendar,” Steve insisted, although, in truth, he sounded more determined than he actually was. It was only through sheer inertia and the fact that the tram was coming their way that he didn’t just turn on his heels and shove back to Brookfield.

“Erasers do exist,” Sam mumbled.

Steve was saved the trouble of answering by the car halting in front of them. The two climbed aboard hurriedly while shivering violently, paid their fee, and took an empty bench in the middle. Another person got on behind them, the door slid shut, and the car rattled off down the tracks.

“Have you thought about what I asked last time?” Steve said, once he could feel his nose again. He scrubbed at his eyes and, to his surprise, there were no crystals, but the back of his hand did wipe away cold moisture.

“Yeah,” Sam said, slowly. He looked out the window as they rattled along Fifth Avenue. The tram passed newly opened department stores and small shops with awnings that were beginning to crack from age. He said nothing for a moment and then turned to Steve, a half-smile crooked on his face. “I wouldn’t hate it.”

Steve started, breaking into a grin.

“Really?”

“It’s not the worst idea,” Sam said, looking down at his hands and then back up. “I’m twenty six years old. That’s plenty respectable to find someone to settle down with. And if I had someone I needed to care for—a home I needed to build with someone, well, that would recommend me for some things and if that person had to be here, in New York, then I could stay.”

Sam paused, rubbing his cold hands together and looked up at Steve.

“I would really like to stay.”

Steve, as cold as he was, began to warm at that. Excitement spiked beneath his breastbone.

“There’s plenty of prospects,” he said, enthusiastically. “I know—I can think of at least a few off the top of my head. Oh, you’d be perfect for any of them.”

That made Sam pause for long enough that Steve felt a prick of awkwardness.

“What?” he frowned.

“Well,” Sam said. He lifted a gloved hand and pressed it against the back of his neck; a gesture he made when he felt abashed or awkward himself. “I actually—there’s someone I have in mind.”

  
**art:** Sam blushing while talking about who he's sweet on; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve blinked at him.

“There is? What? Who?”

“There’s—well, I stayed at a boarding house,” Sam said. “For a while, when I lived in the District.”

“When’d you live there?” Steve frowned.

“I left Boston for a while, after I finished school,” Sam said, shrugging. “Lived in Maryland, closeby, for a few years, trying out a few different things. There was a woman there who stayed in the boarding house with me.”

Steve blinked rapidly, absorbing this new information.

“She was beautiful—but more than that too. Intelligent, funny, a real spirit about her,” Sam said. He smiled as he did so, nearly glowing with warmth. “No nonsense. Really called me out any time I said or did something she thought was, well, stupid.”

Steve laughed.

“I thought about suggesting more, but the timing never felt right. Either I was busy or she was and then it was all too late,” Sam said. “I lost touch with her after I left, but I always regretted not staying for her—or at least, following up with her, you know?”

Steve didn’t, but he nodded anyway.

“Well,” Sam said, and his dark cheeks tinged with a light flush. “She’s here now. Ran into her a few months back, in fact. We’ve been going to lunch on occasion, when she’s not too busy.”

“She’s here?” Steve asked, eyes wide. “You never told me about her. Well? What’s her name? What does she do? Sam, this is wonderful!”

“Name’s Claire,” Sam said, with a sweet smile. “She’s a reporter—a journalist.”

Steve’s smile, widening, came to a halt almost immediately. The look of horror on his face—much too quick to hide—could not have gone unnoticed, if Sam’s surprised expression was anything to go by. Steve attempted to school his expression the best he could, but he couldn’t help it—of all of the things Sam could have said, nothing could have been more shocking, or unpleasant, as this.

“A _reporter_?”

“She wrote for _The Post_ on occasion when we lived in the District,” Sam said. He rolled his shoulder, somewhat uncomfortably. “Came here last year to see if _The Times_ would take her. Is—what’s the matter?”

It wasn’t that _The New York Times_ was disreputable, really. It wasn’t even that _The Washington Post_ was known for being a rag. Both papers were respected, as much as such things could be. The problem—the horror, really—of Sam matching himself with a reporter was that he was matching himself _with_ a reporter. Not only were reporters unsavory sorts, but they could never be truly trusted and even less respected.

“Sam, no,” Steve said. He swallowed, feeling terrible at the way Sam’s expression fell, but knowing he had to speak his mind. Sam was his dear friend and if he did not tell him what a disastrous match this would be, then he had no business claiming to be in his confidence.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” Sam said, quietly.

“I can’t tell you what to do, of course,” Steve said, uncomfortable but firm. “I would never...presume to do so. But, you have to consider what it would be like for you—married to a reporter! In our society!”

Sam scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully and Steve felt worse, but ploughed on.

“I am sure she is lovely, of course,” he said. “Talented and intelligent and all of the things you’ve said. But we can find you a better match. Someone more appropriate of your worth. You have to admit, reporters do have a certain reputation.”

Sam might have been but a ward, but, being the ward of a well-to-do Colonel, the rules of society certainly could not have escaped him. It took him a moment of frowning, but then he nodded although his expression was troubled.

“I suppose...you could be right,” he said. “I don’t want to make it any harder on myself. And I suppose I haven’t tried to find any other match here.”

Steve let out a relieved breath. Immediately, his spirits brightened and his expression did too.

“Precisely!” he said, enthusiastically, to show his support. “You understand me completely. There are plenty of worthy bachelors in the city, Sam, and why, with how charming and handsome you are, not to mention your connection with me, I expect we will not need to wait long at all for you to fall in love.”

Sam finally looked amused at that.

“You make it sound so easy,” he said. “Finding a match. Falling in love. Just like that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know myself,” Steve said. The car came to a slow halt in front of the stop closest to the library and Steve got up, adjusting his books in his arms. “But, as for my success in matchmaking, let’s just say that it is a perfect rate.”

Sam shook his head and got up with Steve, following him down the aisle toward the door. Perhaps he had finally seen the light—that Steve was right and there was much out there left for him to explore. Or, perhaps, in their few months of friendship, Sam Wilson had already gotten used to Steve Rogers.

“Then, my friend,” Sam said, “I put my life and my love, in your hands.”

“Excellent,” Steve said, chipper until they stepped off the tram and into the bitter wind. He began to immediately wheeze into the cold. “I am much better at that kind of decision-making than I am about choosing when to return library books.”

*

Steve’s favorite tailor was right next to his favorite haberdashery, which was lucky for him because usually by the time the elbows on his jacket gave out, he could also convince himself to stop by and pick himself up a new hat.

Today was no different, so by the time he braced the brisk November weather to hurry back home, he had two jackets being mended and had bought an additional two bowlers in slightly different styles, as a consolation and treat.

Vernon opened the door for him almost immediately, much to Steve’s relief, as his nose was cold and pink and his ears even moreso.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Steve said, hurrying inside. He scraped his shoes against the mat and let Vernon take his scarf and overcoat. “Is Ma terribly worried?”

“Oh no,” Vernon said, folding Steve’s scarf over an arm. His grey and ample mustache twitched, which was the first sign that not all was as Steve had left it. “Miss Sarah has had plenty to keep her occupied. I’m not certain she’s even noticed the time.”

Well that was unlike his mother enough that Steve frowned, but he did take Vernon’s word for it. Their manservant had been with the Rogers family for longer than Steve had been alive. He was very well acquainted with Sarah Rogers’s moods and particular quirks.

Steve took off his hat and held it in one hand as he made his way through the foyer and down the hallway toward the seating room. It was near evening by now, so if his mother had not otherwise retired to her room, that’s where she would be—in her chair, next to the fireplace.

“Ma,” Steve called, just before stepping into the room. “What have you gotten yourself up to?”

The answer was abundantly clear the moment he entered and a familiar head of floppy, brown curls looked up at him.

Bucky was bent close to his mother and the two of them were giggling about something, clearly, which did not make Steve irate or suspicious, per se, but did raise one or both of his eyebrows.

  
**art:** Bucky and Sarah Rogers, conspiring; **art by:** nalonzooo

“Bucky!” Steve said and Bucky had the wherewithal to look both delighted and chagrined, a bit. “I did not know you were coming by!”

“Well I could not possibly have hoped to gain entrance if I gave you notice, could I?” Bucky grinned. He was without jacket, just in black trousers, a grey waistcoat, and a nice button-up shirt. Steve was pretty sure that Sarah had actually bought Bucky that shirt just last Christmas, which was an expert move on Bucky’s part, given that he was always trying to brown nose Sarah Rogers. It almost always worked.

“Very funny,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. He placed his hat on the one rack in the room and crossed over to the fire.

“You look—” Bucky said, looking up at Steve. Steve blinked and Bucky blinked back. Then Bucky grinned. “Tousled. Unkempt. Practically inappropriate.”

  
**art:** Steve blushing after Bucky calls him inappropriate; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve colored, both in embarrassment and indignation.

“It’s the wind!” he squeaked, his hands running immediately to his hair, where—true to Bucky’s teasing—his blond hair was all amess. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Bucky cackled quietly and Sarah looked up from her book, with an amused, but somewhat worried smile.

“Was it terrible out?” she asked. “You know how your asthma acts up. Oh, I wish you did not go on errands when it’s winter out. You know Vernon could easily go in your place.”

“Vernon has enough work to do making sure the unsavory sort do not breach Brookfield,” Steve muttered. He fixed his hair the best he could and leaned over the fire to warm up hands nearly turning blue with cold. “And all of the other things we make him do.”

“Have you considered doing any of those things yourself?” Bucky asked.

There was a pause.

“Don’t be absurd,” Steve and Sarah said at the same time.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but his expression was entirely too amused. Or bemused, maybe. He straightened.

“I’m down this way for a few days on business,” he said. “Sarah said I could have my usual quarters. Is that all right with you?”

“If the other option is making you sleep on the steps in the cold, I must admit it’s a tempting one,” Steve said. Bucky looked exasperated almost immediately, which made Steve grin. “But I suppose, since Ma already asked you to, I have no choice but to give my assent as well.”

“You always use so many words when one would do,” Bucky said.

He threw himself into his favorite seat, his long legs dangling over the side. It wasn’t a proper way of sitting, but Bucky was the kind to let propriety be at ease among those he was fond of or, at least, felt comfortable with. Steve would never admit it, but it was one of the things that made him feel most fondly toward his old friend. The Bucky Barnes who was proper and kind and genteel among society was sometimes nowhere to be found at Brookfield and that made Steve feel a little less, well, loony.

“The word no?” Steve said. His fingers were finally regaining some feeling, so he turned away from the fire.

“The words, yes, Bucky, yes!” Bucky said, now grinning as well. He propped himself up by the elbow on one end of the chair, his legs thrown over the other. It was all manners of inappropriate, but Steve had seen it so many times before, he was barely affected by the whole scheme.

“That is three words, you blockhead,” Steve said. He did not sound fond, of course. “Well, I suppose we must feed you dinner, as well.”

“Steve, be nice,” Sarah chided her son.

“I am always nice, mother,” Steve said. “Look, I have just offered Bucky a chance to eat, his favorite activity.”

“Only when the food is so good,” Bucky said, all charm at Sarah. “Such as when I come here and you and Florence have made such a divine meal for us all to share.”

“Good lord,” Steve muttered, rolling his eyes, as his mother preened under the flattery.

“Oh, go wash up, Steve,” Sarah chided her son. “I won’t have you bringing the chill inside, to our dinner table.”

Steve sighed as Bucky snickered, too tired and much too hungry to explain to his mother that while he was no doctor, he was certain that was not how chills worked.

  
Supper was hearty and warm—with courses of oyster soup, roast stuffed turkey with a side of cranberry sauce, boiled Irish potatoes, French peas, and little chicken puff pastries his mother adored. They took their dessert at the table too, with fresh coffee and steaming pots of tea to sip while eating bowls of bright, fresh fruit, and a particularly boozy savarin a l’orange, which Steve knew to be Bucky’s favorite. That made Steve suspect that perhaps his mother had known that the other man was to be stopping by, but the meal was so pleasant and the company so full and delightful that Steve could not find it in him to be cross.

His mother retired not soon after finishing her second helping of the cake, declaring she was feeling a slight ache, although Steve was almost certain she meant of her stomach, given how much the three had eaten between them.

“I will see you in the morning, Mrs. Rogers, and we will continue where we left off earlier,” Bucky said, kissing Sarah on the cheek. She looked up fondly at him, as a mother would her own son.

That was all a bit much and Steve rolled his eyes, which Bucky caught with a smirk.

“You will have Vernon help you draw a fire in your room, won’t you?” Sarah fussed as she said her goodnight to her son. “It’s colder than it was before and you know your circulation is so poor.”

Steve flushed and grumbled, but his mother was not to be assuaged that easily, so he said that he would have Vernon help him if he could not manage himself and, barring that, would at least have Florence fetch him some extra blankets to use that night.

“I will see you both in the morning then,” Sarah Rogers said, expression pleased. She kissed her son on both of his cheeks, warmly, hand lingering on his cheek. “Do not stay up too late or you will both be tired and cross tomorrow and I like to eat my eggs in peace.”

“We aren’t children, Ma,” Steve complained, to which Sarah smiled and said, “That is news to me, when that is what you both act like.”

Steve looked affronted and Bucky at least had the decency to look chastened—well, until Sarah took her leave anyway. Then he grinned in his easygoing manner and slung an arm over Steve’s shoulder.

“Shall we help ourselves to some brandy?”

“I will help you to something all right,” Steve grumbled, but the threat was without any barbs, because he was still too full and his mouth sweet with the taste of fruit.

He and Bucky raided the liquor cabinet in the kitchen and snuck an entire bottle out under their shirts, as though they were not grown men and as though Vernon would care even if they weren’t.

“Let’s take it up to my room, if that’s all right,” Steve said and Bucky grinned in agreement.

  
They did call Vernon in to set up the fire and after that, Steve flipped the switch connected to the electricity. Two lightbulbs hung in the corner of his room in a small, dark iron cage, and with the flip, flickered on, the light low and dim at first, before slowly filling the space.

“It never does grow old, does it?” Bucky commented in wonder.

Steve smiled because as long as he’d known him, his old friend was enamored of things like science and new technologies. Bucky was always trying to talk Steve’s ear off about such and such new invention and Steve listened sometimes and tuned him out at all other times.

“There is a charm to it, for sure,” he said.

Steve shoved off his sack coat and lay it on top of his chair, while stepping out of his shoes and placing them by the door. He loosened his necktie until it slid over his head, placing the light blue silk on top of his coat. Then he settled with a jump on top of his bed, his legs folded under him, and began undoing his waistcoat and unbuttoning the top of his shirt to be more comfortable.

Bucky watched him in amusement, and although he also took off his shoes and his hat and sat cross-legged across from Steve, he did not begin unbuttoning anything. Instead, he pulled out the pear brandy from under his arm and lay it in the middle of the bed.

“We forgot glasses!” Steve exclaimed.

“As though we’ve ever needed it before,” Bucky said with a grin.

Steve watched him dubiously, although his mouth was twitching. “We will have to finish the entire thing, then, and bury the evidence.”

“Vernon has never caught us before and he will not start now!” Bucky declared and unscrewed the top with a flourish. The pear brandy sloshed around the bottom half of the bottle, half empty as it was.

“For the older of us, you are much more of a trouble than I ever was,” Steve said, amused. He stretched his legs out in front of him, his socked toes wriggling in the air between them.

“That is a strange way to say wiser and more handsome and certainly better tempered,” Bucky said. He grinned and took the first swig of the bottle. To Steve’s amusement, he made a pained face immediately, possibly because taking a mouthful of brandy straight from the bottle was a fool’s act, but he recovered almost immediately with a loud _ahhhh!_

“I have never said anything of the sort, nor will you hear me ever saying anything of the sort.” Steve watched his friend tip the bottle back against his mouth again and recalled more than one night of this kind—the two of them, in one or another room in the Rogers family estate, stealing liquor and drinking while enjoying one another’s camaraderie. The six years difference between them had not mattered so much then, except that Bucky took a particular delight in potentially corrupting a far-too eager and willing Steve.

Anyway, it was different when they were younger and had less responsibility, but this was nice too, in a different way, as though the history of their two families could be traced between the two of them and the affection they shared.

“So, are you going to lecture me again?” Steve asked, nudging Bucky in the thigh with his toe.

Bucky gave him a disgruntled look and Steve grinned, holding his hand out for the bottle.

“Remember how quickly you become drunk,” Bucky warned, as though Steve was going to listen to him. He rolled his shoulder and leaned back on his hands, his long legs stretched out in front of him so that the fire was to his back and Steve was to his front.

“Pah,” was Steve’s answer and he took a mouthful of the brandy, immediately biting back a cough at the burn.

“Why am I lecturing you again?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Steve said. “You’re always lecturing me. I don’t know how you manage it, when I am perfect and no one else can find a single fault.”

“You have plenty of faults,” Bucky snorted. “Everyone is much too cowardly to point them out to you.”

“But you are not?” Steve asked.

“I have known you far too long to allow you such a high opinion of yourself,” Bucky replied. It would be mean-spirited coming from anyone else, but his friend had such a good nature and anyway, it was clear by the relaxed lines of his shoulders that he was teasing.

“I do not know why Vernon allows you to come to Brookfield,” Steve grumbled. He tried to take another sip, but Bucky’s hand darted out and he took the bottle from him instead. “Hey! Terrible manners.”

“I am very thirsty,” Bucky said, by way of explanation.

Steve watched lazily as Bucky drank, his friend’s body relaxed, the swoops of his curls glowing gently in the light of the fire.

“Now I know you have something to say,” Steve prodded again. “I have seen it in your face since the moment you got here.”

“Technically I got here before you did,” Bucky said.

“ _Bucky_!”

Bucky laughed, a familiar, fond sound that curled warmly in Steve’s stomach. Steve smiled in response and nudged Bucky until his friend handed the bottle back.

“No lecture tonight.”

“What have you been doing with your days, then? It has been some time since you came to visit.”

“Father’s kept me busy with bookkeeping and learning the industry,” Bucky said, with a light shrug. “And I’ve been checking on the tenements, which has taken much more time than expected.”

Steve frowned.

“Do they like you going down there?”

Steve had never visited any tenements himself, although twice a year, the Rogers estate donated a reasonable amount to a few charities that helped those living in those areas. He knew they were pitiable, of course, just as well as he knew he would never have been welcomed near one. They were squalid, dirty, crime-ridden places and Steve worried for Bucky as he visited them so often.

“I don’t go as a visitor, Steve,” Bucky said. His tone dipped a little in admonishment and Steve felt both rankled and chastened.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair and his neatly combed curls came even more undone.

“We, more than anyone, have reason to go,” Bucky said, after a moment’s thought. “To see who else we are living here with and how they are living. It’s not enough for us to live in our palaces and have people eating from the garbage just down the block from us.”

“Just down the block from me is Colonel Fury and his estate is no _palace_ but—” Steve started and hastily cut himself off at Bucky’s dark look.

“They’re only getting worse,” Bucky said, with a frustrated sigh. “I try to help as best as I can, but it is beyond what any one person can do.”

“Still, you go,” Steve said. He felt bad now, for making light of what was clearly a passion for Bucky. “That is more than what most people do.”

“It is not as much as I could do,” Bucky admitted guiltily, with a sigh. “But it is something to begin with.”

“How does your father feel about this?” Steve asked.

“Oh he thinks it’s devilry, but it keeps me out of his hair and he cannot have any complaints of my work ethic, besides. I go in to work and do all of the bookkeeping and learn everything there is to know about running the family business, so what I do on my own time has nothing to do with him.”

Bucky seemed far more confident than Steve felt for him, given what he knew of George Barnes—that he was fair and kind and honest, but he was a man of business and industry all the same.

“He does not approve of your philanthropic efforts,” Steve said with a laugh.

“He wishes my philanthropic efforts were more of the...traditional charity kind,” Bucky said, wryly. “Anyway, it’s my time to do what I will with and this is important—being among the poor is important. I know some in those communities now and they are just as lovely as anyone we would otherwise invite into our homes. They’re polite and hard-working and I am coming to understand their plight, their politics.”

“Their politics?” Steve asked, with a slight frown.

“Do not make me say the word out loud,” Bucky said. When Steve’s frown did not lessen, he said, “Unions.”

“Oh,” Steve said. Then, “ _Oh_!”

In truth, Steve did not know much about labor unions—their need, their demands, or anything much other than the riots he heard about sporadically. Oh he knew they were becoming talked about more and more—positively, in certain company, less positively, in others—but it all seemed very distant to him, from within the walls of Brookfield.

“At any rate,” Bucky said, after a moment’s quiet that Steve did not quite know how to fill. “Now you. I know you are going to tell me something I will never agree with and then we can begin arguing as usual and you will end the night drunk and happy.”

Steve’s mood cleared almost instantly at that. His chest lightening with levity, he tipped the mouth of the glass bottle back against his lips and drank deeper than he probably should have, only to hiss at the comfortable pain after.

“Give me that bottle and begin speaking.”

The bottle exchanged hands again and Steve, his head buzzing pleasantly as the liquor slowly saturated his system, said the first thing he could think of.

“Sam almost made the most disastrous match for himself.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and settled in with the bottle.

“Oh, this is sure to be good,” he said. “Go on.”

Steve rolled his eyes and pulled his legs up so as to wrap his arms around.

“Well, owing to circumstances quite out of our control, our friend Sam—”

“ _Your_ friend Sam,” Bucky interjected and Steve glared.

“ _Our_ friend Sam finds himself in a bit of predicament. You see, as he is here from Boston solely for the purpose of helping his uncle, if he does not marry, then he will have no reason to stay in the city after his uncle has healed, and if he has no reason to stay in the city, he will be sent to another one, and if he is sent to another one, then it will be one far from here, and if he is sent to one far from here, it will be too far for me to visit, and then our friendship will be at an end, and I will be forced to perish alone.”

The look on Bucky’s face was—if not exasperated, then something so ridiculous as to be comical.

“I need a drink for this,” Bucky said and immediately helped himself to one straight from the bottle.

“So the only solution is obviously to have him marry and therefore be required by marriage and law and the rules of love and...matrimony to stay in New York City,” Steve finished, smugly.

“I need more to drink,” Bucky replied and followed one gulp with another.

Steve had nothing to throw at his friend, so he nudged his thigh with a toe instead.

“Anyway, after Sam heartily agreed with me—” (“I bet,” Bucky muttered.) “—he told me that he had a match in mind for himself.”

“Well that’s good,” Bucky said. “That’s what you wanted.”

“Do let me finish,” Steve said. He took in a breath. “He told me his prospect was a woman named Claire and that he has known her for some time, but that she is a _journalist_.”

Bucky waited, as though Steve would have more to say. Instead, Steve stared at him.

“Did you hear me? She is a _journalist_. A _reporter_. She writes for the rags, that is her entire profession.”

“Oh you are going to say something that truly burns me up, so I’m waiting for you to get to that part,” Bucky said, sitting up in bed now.

Steve tried to ignore the ripple of irritation that shot through him.

“I told him he could not, of course,” he said. “That’s barely a profession at all, let alone a respectable one.”

“So?” Bucky asked.

“So?” Steve stared at him. “What do you mean _so_? Sam cannot marry a _gossip_. That’s far below his station, first of all, and second—”

“Below his station?” Bucky said loudly. “What is his station? He is not you, to inherit an entire estate!”

“He cannot marry a journalist!” Steve said, heated. “It is not polite society—”

“Polite society!” Bucky exclaimed. “Did he _ask_ you your opinions on polite society?”

“No, but—”

“Did Sam Wilson come to you and say _Steve, I’d like to marry someone very respectable_ —”

“Well, no, but—”

“Did he say, instead, _Steve, please find me a match that is genteel and acceptable to your personal societal standards_ —”

“I did not _say_ —”

“You cannot go around deciding what someone can and cannot do, Steve!” Bucky said, emphatically. His voice was getting loud and his face was a little flushed, but not nearly as red as Steve’s own, as angry as he was getting. “Especially when the topic is their _marriage_!”

“Will you let me get in a word edgewise!” Steve bristled.

“Not when your words are as dumb as you are!”

Steve glowered at his friend so much, he was nearly shaking.

“You are being _snobbish_ ,” Bucky said.

“I am not being— _that_ ,” Steve said, angrily. “I am being practical. There are plenty of persons here who would be a much better match for him and whom he would not have to—debase himself to be with.”

“ _Debase_ himself,” Bucky snorted.

“Sam Wilson is a _catch_!” Steve said, loudly. “He is worth more than half the men we know and twice some, regardless of his station and what he _deserves_ is a match of equal _value_ as him and if he was to lower himself to marry a journalist, he would banish himself from the society he has _earned_ and so rightfully is owed!”

Gone was the earlier ease and camaraderie between the two of them, the friendliness and warmth shared between two friends who’d had a good dinner and even better dessert. Instead, Steve felt insulted and cold and more than a little angry and Bucky was looking at him as though he was on the verge of being disappointed, which was not doing anything for Steve’s mood at all.

Tension crackled between them, uncomfortable and rare.

Steve folded his arm across his chest, his jaw tight, expression stormy.

He would not capitulate, of course, being the only one of the two who was _right_.

For a moment, it did seem as though they had come to a terrible impasse.

Eventually, Bucky sighed.

He reached over to the table and set the bottle of brandy down—unfinished. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at Steve.

“Look,” he said, without apology, but without the harsh tone of just a minute before. “We are not like to agree here, old friend. I think you’re a fool and should leave well enough alone—”

Steve made a sound and Bucky put up both of his hands.

“ _But_ I know you will not listen and I do not wish to fight. So, how about we reach a truce and resume being pleasant in the morning?”

That was not a compromise to Steve’s liking, but, well, it wasn’t as though he had another choice. Bucky was unlikely to cede and Steve certainly wasn’t going to. Anyway, he was too tired to continue fighting with Bucky because Bucky _never_ let him win even when he—Steve—was right and he—Bucky—was wrong.

“Fine,” Steve said, not caring to hide the petulance in his voice. “But I will be cross with you until then.”

“I will leave the brandy with you in that case,” Bucky said, with his natural, gracious smile and unfolded himself from Steve’s bed to get up. “And hope that does the trick.”

It did seem rather sad to drink the rest by himself, but Bucky was already going to get his hat and put on his shoes.

“How long are you staying, anyhow?” Steve asked, the rest of his anger ebbing away. He never could stay mad at him too long.

“Just a few days,” Bucky said, pausing at the door, hat in hand. “Long enough to quarrel with you a few more rounds.”

Steve made a face, which made Bucky laugh. That, in turn, made something loosen within Steve. He felt himself relax.

“I will have to rest, then, to make sure I have energy enough for it,” he said, his tone a concession.

“You always have energy to fight with me,” Bucky said, with a smile.

  
**art:** Bucky smiling at Steve, hat in his hand; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve looked at him, the earlier tension dissipating entirely.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” he said.

Bucky, looking as bemused and exasperated and fond as ever, shook his head.

“Goodnight, Steve,” he said.

Steve watched him go.

He waited one listless minute after Bucky had closed the door behind him before shoving off his trousers and shoving out of his waistcoat and shirt. He could not even bother to find his nightclothes before he also shoved himself under the covers and, without another moment’s troubled thought, fell immediately into an exhausted asleep.

*


	4. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky pushed his hair back and then, looking at the scene next to Steve, raised an eyebrow. 
> 
> That was when the idea fully manifested.

**PART IV.**

Steve hated church, truth be told. He had nothing against St. James’s itself, with its red brick facade, stained vague approximation of a steepled roof, and arched doorways, but he hated the act of being in church, of sitting in the hard pews, and being still for long enough that the Reverend would not give him a pointed look while delivering his sermon. Steve’s only real entertainment during services was looking out the stained glass windows and imagining the greater New Yorker streets beyond the vibrant colors. Sometimes, someone would also do something entertaining among the audience—such as the time a Tony Stark openly fell asleep at his seat and began snoring loudly or the time Mr. Stuyvesant Fish burst into the service thirty minutes after it had begun, smelling like the bottom of a bottle of gin.

Usually, however, those entertainments were few and far between and Steve spent the time half listening to the Reverend, half worrying about his mother worrying about being in such crowded quarters for so long, and half staring off into space and imagining a wild variety of things. Steve was often so bored that his time allotment added up to more than one whole, or at least it felt that way, services dragging so long that he felt time moved in ways they could only possibly move in fictional stories.

Today was no different, except that Natasha had come down for it, Bucky was sitting next to his mother, and every time Steve fidgeted, Natasha pinched his side in cruel punishment. By the time the service was all said and done, Steve’s side was sore, and his arm—under his jacket—was almost certainly pink, and he was cross about all of it.

“Do not disrespect the Lord in his Home,” Natasha muttered to him, as he got up, glowering at her.

“That’s not fair,” Steve muttered back, rubbing his arm. “You do it all the time. You barely show up for the Lord.”

“The Lord and I have an understanding,” Natasha said. She adjusted her lilac-colored hat so that the over-large, cream-colored bow was not obstructing her vision. The young man and woman sitting next to her cleared from their aisle and the two of them followed after while Sarah stayed back to talk to Bucky about something Steve had no interest in listening to.

“I don’t think He knows you have an understanding,” Steve said. “Hey!”

He moved back abruptly before she could pinch him again and nearly went careening into someone, who quickly caught him by the elbow before he could knock into half of the parishioners.

“Careful!” a woman’s voice said and before Steve could begin to feel either grateful or humiliated for the rescue, he caught sight of a familiar face towering above him.

“Maria!” he smiles broadly and the woman who caught him helped him straighten with a smile of her own.

“Steve,” Ms. Maria Hill said. “If you’re trying to play a game of human dominos, I wouldn’t recommend the church for it. There are too many prim and proper people and the Reverend does not take well to such—”

“—foolhardy behavior?” Natasha, who was standing next to Steve, grinned.

“I was going to say...playfulness,” Maria said, her mouth twitching.

“I was _attempting_ to escape an assault to my person,” Steve said, leveling Natasha with a glare. His friend ignored it, choosing instead to wrap a red curl around her finger and pretend to be innocent.

“Who knew Faith to be so dangerous?” Maria wondered out loud. The amusement in her voice was difficult to ignore and perhaps, from anyone else, that would annoy Steve, but he had known Maria Hill for some time now and he had nothing but good things to say about her.

“Anyone who participated in the Crusades, at least,” Natasha mused out loud and this time Steve almost pinched _he_. She moved out of the way just in time and then looked across the church. “Oh look, I see someone I know. Excuse me.”

“Coward!” Steve called after her. His voice echoed slightly around the great room, which made more than a few people look at him oddly.

Maria, for her part, laughed.

“Will you walk me outside?” she asked. “It’s been ages since we’ve seen one another.”

“Well one of us is now being doctor to all the people of New York City and the other is fretting over whether the weather will soon be too cold to keep the windows open at home,” Steve said, offering Maria his arm. She took it, although she stood a good two inches above him. “I don’t want to say who is whom, but my medical practice is going exceptionally well.”

Maria laughed at that, again, which made Steve feel lighter altogether.

“No, but really,” Steve said, as they walked down the aisle toward the entrance to the church. “How have you been? I have not seen you once since you returned to the city and began your practice.”

“Unfortunately, there is always someone suffering from typhoid or cholera and those who are not suffering in that manner are suffering in another,” Maria said. “It’s never a dull day, certainly.”

Steve and Maria made their way to the entrance of the church and paused at the top of the stairs, blinking in the bright Sunday sunlight. The parishioners were milled about on the steps leading down to the street, ladies in feathered hats and their wool coats pulled tight over their Sunday best dresses and the men all in similarly cut, black jackets and black hats that were mostly similar and only differed slightly. There were children holding onto their governess’s hands, tugging on them so desperately it seemed they must long to get run over by the horses pulling cars down the street.

It was a pleasant, almost delightful cacophony of what Manhattan could be if everyone slowed down for a minute or three. Even the chill in the air could not dispirit Steve, who liked it best when everyone was in a good mood around him.

He turned to Maria.

“Say, I heard a rumor.”

Maria’s mouth twitched again. “About me?”

“You already know it,” Steve said, grinning. Maria shrugged and pretended to adjust her hat, so Steve pressed on. “It is that you came by your medical degree in an unusual way.”

“Huh,” Maria said. “Did I?”

“Allegedly.”

“Well, as long as it is _allegedly_ ,” Maria said. “How does my hat look?”

“You look the very vision of a proper young lady of society,” Steve said. He tugged her out of the way as two children came barrelling up the steps and nearly into them. “Geez!”

“Don’t break anything!” Maria called after them. “I’m not on duty!”

The two went all the way down the steps and stood to the side as the rest of the church-goers began calling streetcars and departing.

Steve gestured Maria closer and his friend, amused, did as beckoned.

“Did you dress as a man to become a doctor?” he whispered, scandalized. “Did you _pretend_?”

Maria, grinning, put her mouth close to Steve’s ear—although not so close as to be improper—and said, pleased, “Yes.”

Steve gasped and pulled away and the look on Maria’s face was so entertained and smug that he barely noticed when someone came up next to his elbow.

“It was shocking to me when I learned what they did to Christ too,” a familiar voice said.

“Honestly, not a twist I was expecting personally,” Maria said. “Although the characterization of the whole affair left a bit to be desired.”

The same familiar voice cackled.

Steve, gaping like a fish, turned, although his shock and scandal melted away the moment he saw Sam standing in his Sunday suit and hat.

“Sam!” Steve said loudly, warmth blooming in his chest as he delighted to see his friend. He threw an arm around him and Sam, laughing, embraced him.

“The service was that bad, huh?”

“I am so happy to see you!”

“He never greets me that way,” Maria observed.

“That’s entirely his mistake, then,” Sam grinned at her over Steve’s head.

Steve pulled back, both delighted and annoyed, which, to be fair, was the area of feeling he knew best.

“Neither of you are fair to me at all,” he grumbled, then brightened. “But luckily I am in a good mood, so I will introduce you all the same. Sam Wilson, this is Ms.—sorry, _Dr._ Maria Hill. Her father is of Hill Department Stores, although she chose a different path for herself.”

“That’s quite an introduction for me, although I still don’t know much about you,” Maria said, extending her hand.

For a moment, Sam and Steve both blinked, but before Steve could be embarrassed or affronted, Sam smiled and took her hand to shake.

“Sam Wilson,” he said. “I’m not nearly so accomplished, unless you count being someone’s ward and nephew.”

“Depends whose nephew.”

“Colonel Nicholas Fury,” Sam said, as they shook.

“Oh, Colonel Fury!” Maria said, brightly. “Actually, that does change everything.”

“You know my uncle?”

“I—well, in truth, he helped me a few years ago,” Maria said. “When I was looking for a medical school that would accept me.”

“How did you know him?” Sam asked, curious.

“By chance, as it would have it,” Maria said. “I was helping at a clinic as a nurse and he came in with some ailments. No other nurse would deal with him—something about his, ah, bedside manners.”

Both Sam and Steve chuckled a bit at that.

“But I grew up with a gruff father and two brothers myself, so I didn’t mind,” she said, with a smile. “Apparently he respected that.”

“That’s uncle for you,” Sam nodded. “Best way into his heart is to be a bastard right back to him.”

“Sam!” Steve exclaimed, but Sam and Maria both laughed loudly.

Actually, it wasn’t an unpleasant sound at all. Sam and Maria seemed to take to one another immediately and continued standing on the bottom of the steps and talking, laughing against the wind, and leaning close to one another to hear. Steve was contemplating this as he looked across the wide staircase just in time to catch Bucky’s eye.

Bucky was standing next to Natasha and Tony and speaking to them both as Sarah caught up with some of her friends. The wind caught what curls appeared beneath his hat, blowing them into his face, which made him wrinkle his nose immediately. Steve grinned happily.

Bucky pushed his hair back and then, looking at the scene next to Steve, raised an eyebrow.

That was when the idea fully manifested.

“Maria!” Steve said, barely able to contain himself.

Sam and Maria paused, mid-conversation, to look at him.

“You must come to Brooktfield,” he said. “Next week.”

“Next week?” Maria blinked, confused.

“Yes,” Steve said. “Sam and I are to—have a reading.”

“A reading?” Sam asked.

“Of—poetry!”

“A reading of poetry?” Maria echoed Sam’s confusion.

“And painting,” Steve said.

“We’re reading poetry and painting?” Sam repeated.

“It will be a great time,” Steve assured them, trying to throw Sam a significant look that Sam just looked even more confused by. “You must come.”

“Yes,” Sam said, slowly, clearly with no idea of what just happened or what was clearly happening. “Please, join us.”

Maria looked like she was on the verge of laughing.

“Are you quite done?” Natasha appeared suddenly at Steve’s elbow. She laced her arm through his impatiently. “It’s cold and your mother is worrying.”

Steve looked over to his mother, who did, in fact, look concerned as she leaned in and said something to Bucky. Bucky quirked a smile at her, which made Steve smile in turn. Thick as thieves, those two.

The wind rustled between the four of them and Maria looked at both Steve and Natasha with amusement first and then, thoughtfully.

“I guess I can’t miss it,” she said. “Thank you, Steve.”

Steve, attention back to the task at hand, beamed.

“Sam and I will see you next week!”

They waved to Maria as she took her leave.

“What have you done now?” Natasha hissed into his ear as the three of them walked back toward his mother.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Steve told both Natasha and Sam, with eager delight. “Maria is absolutely the perfect match for Sam!”

Sam and Natasha did not look particularly convinced, but that was fine with Steve. He knew what he was doing. He always knew what he was doing.

*

It was clear to Steve, even if it wasn’t clear to anyone else. Maria was accomplished and intelligent, funny, and able to carry her own weight in conversation. Sam was all of these things and more and the two were exceptionally handsome besides.

“Are you sure about this?” Sam asked, helping Steve pick through books of poetry. “I don’t know anything about her. And her father owns Hill Department Store—I don’t have anything to offer her in return.”

That made Steve scoff. He was on top of a ladder in the family library room, which, to be sure, was much less a room and far more of a library. The books were collections the Rogers family had been amassing for generations now, which meant that Steve was allergic to almost everything if Florence hadn’t dusted recently. His sneezing meant nothing to him as he searched through the section of poetry books, looking for a collection that would move both Sam and Maria to feeling.

“Don’t be absurd,” Steve said, looking at a book with a cracked blue spine and putting it back to seek another. “You have yourself to offer and that is more than enough.”

At the base of the ladder, Sam was holding onto both sides in order to steady the whole thing and Steve along with it.

“I don’t think Dr. Hill’s father will accept _Steve Rogers says you’re enough_ in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage, Steve.”

“You underestimate what my word is worth,” Steve said. He scanned the shelf in front of him and lit up when he found a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. “Everyone loves sonnets, right?”

“Steve, I don’t know a thing about poetry,” Sam said, looking up at him.

“No one knows a thing about poetry, Sam,” Steve said. He considered and nodded. “I’m throwing this down to you!”

Sam sighed and braced for impact. He caught the book easily and Steve went back to look for another one.

“Anyway, the poetry isn’t the point. We are just...creating the proper atmosphere for these things,” he said.

“For what things?” Sam asked, squinting.

“For _love_ ,” Steve insisted.

“What do _you_ know about love, Rogers?” an unwelcome voice interrupted his private conversation with Sam.

“I know that I set up Peggy and Angie and they have been deliriously in love ever since,” Steve said, glaring across the room at Bucky.

Bucky stood by the doorway to the library, looking both exasperated and amused. He was mostly dressed, although his starched collar was standing stiff and his bowtie hung loose around his neck.

“Where are you going?” Steve asked.

“Out,” Bucky said. “And all you did was suggest to Peggy that Angie might be a good match. That’s not the same thing as having caused their love. Sam, don’t let him do this to you.”

“Sam isn’t letting anyone do anything,” Steve argued, a little heated. “And I am _suggesting_ that Sam and Maria would be a good match—no, a great match!”

“I’m still in the room, you know,” Sam said to both of them, pointedly. But he did sigh and set the Shakespeare on the closest wooden table. “It couldn’t hurt. She seemed interesting and accomplished and funny besides. I liked her well enough.”

“See!” Steve said, triumphantly.

Bucky groaned and straightened from the door frame.

“Sam, this is a trap and a mistake and I cannot recommend enough that you find somewhere else to be.”

“Nobody asked you!” Steve wished he weren’t on a ladder, precariously standing in front of a wall of books so that he could pick up something and throw it at his friend.

“Leave well enough alone, Steve,” Bucky said, fidgeting with his bowtie as he made to go.

“Weren’t you leaving?” Steve called to him.

“Yes, and when I return, I will be saying I told you so,” Bucky called over his shoulder as he disappeared the way he came from.

Steve, heated, scowled.

“Are you two always like that?” Sam blinked at Steve.

“Ignore him,” Steve said. He grabbed the nearest book of poetry and began climbing down the ladder. “He likes to be sour. All right, we have poetry and now I have just the place to set up the paints. Oh and Natasha will be here soon as well.”

“Natasha?” Sam said. “We’re reading poetry and painting and Natasha will be here to witness all of it?”

“It’s fine,” Steve said, reassuring Sam with a pat on the shoulder. “This is fine. Everything will be just fine.”

  
And it wasn’t _not_ fine. Natasha arrived shortly before Maria and the four had an amiable lunch of roast beef sandwiches, fried potatoes, and an entire setting of cheeses, olives, and breads. Steve made sure that Maria and Sam sat near one another and although Natasha knew exactly what was going on and did not particularly approve, she also did not particularly care and spent most of the meal stealing cheese and then orange slices from Steve’s plate.

After, they retired to the living room, where Steve entertained them by reading aloud from his carefully curated books of poetry.

“I can never tell if it’s terribly romantic or terribly...overwrought,” Maria admitted, after Steve finished Sonnet 106.

“Shakespeare?” Sam asked.

“Poetry, in general,” Maria said. “It all feels like a bit...much.”

“Isn’t that what love is?” Steve asked, a thumb in the middle of the book. “This all-encompassing, drowning, terribly overwrought _thing_.”

“Have you been in love?” Maria asked, surprised.

From her position on the couch, Natasha’s mouth twitched.

“Well, no,” Steve admitted. “I have not, nor do I ever plan on being.”

“Can you plan for those things?”

“If you try hard enough,” Steve said. “But that isn’t the point. I don’t have to have ever felt it to know what it is _supposed_ to feel like.”

“That’s your problem,” Natasha said, leaning forward in her seat. She had her light pink hat in her hand and was smoothing out the pink of her dress. “You think you know how everything is _supposed_ to be, but you never really know what it _is_.”

Steve frowned at that.

“What about you?” Maria turned toward Natasha.

“Please,” was Natasha’s derisive answer.

“I don’t think anyone here knows the first thing about love,” Sam said, straightening from where he sat. “And that’s just as well, because I also don’t know the first thing about poetry.”

Maria laughed warmly at that.

“Enough of this,” Natasha said, standing up. “I’m bored. Let’s do something else.”

“It’s so cold out, otherwise I would love to walk,” Maria said. She stretched lightly and joined Natasha. “The sun is so bright and we never have light in the winter.”

“New York City is a perfectly desolate place,” Natasha agreed. “Imagine choosing to live here.”

“We have a solarium!” Steve said, ignoring his friend. “We never have a chance to use it, but it will be perfect for today.”

The group gathered their shawls and hats and trailed behind Steve as he told them, delightedly, about the solarium. The room was a special gift from his father to his mother, who loved natural light and the sun, although she had stopped using it so frequently after he had passed. Now it’s mostly Steve who sits out in the sunlight when it suits him, reading or drawing or, on occasion, painting.

“I can see why,” Maria said as they stepped from the dim hallway into a room filled with bright, natural light.

The solarium wasn’t as large as some of the other rooms, but it did have a ceiling made of glass and carefully maintained plants that made the whole room glow fresh and green. There were a few French armchairs situated around the space, a glass table with black iron chairs off the center, and a light blue chaise cushioned against a small shelf of books. In the middle of the space was a circular, tiled area where Steve had set up his easel and painting supplies. This was the place he liked the best, where the sun filtered through and everything in the center cast dappled shadows.

“Oh it’s lovely,” Maria said, with a pleased sigh. “I often tell my patients sunlight would do them good, although they rarely have this kind of opportunity to enjoy it.”

“Perhaps you should be doing your surgeries in the Brookfield solarium,” Sam said with a grin.

“Well that would make _me_ feel better anyway,” Maria laughed.

“No blood on the floors,” Steve said to this. “Ma is squeamish and blood is terribly difficult to remove.”

There was a pause at this.

“Do you have something you need to tell us?” Natasha blinked at him.

Steve gave them a beatific smile before moving toward his easel. In truth, he had a plan and that plan was to make Maria realize how talented and irreplaceable Sam was, but now that he thought about it, he wasn’t actually sure Sam knew how to draw at all.

He frowned and picked up a charcoal pencil.

“Oh, are you going to draw for us?” Maria said, sitting lightly against the edge of the glass table. The skirt of her grey dress draped nicely against the ground, the net of her hat cast over her right temple—all in all, she made a lovely sight that Steve was certain Sam could not have missed.

“I don’t like to draw alone,” Steve said, which was a lie.

Natasha, who was staring at him with an eyebrow raised, rolled her eyes and leaned back against the table, next to Maria.

“I can’t draw,” she said, flatly. “Guess it’s up to Sam to entertain us.”

“My idea of drawing is basic shapes with more basic shapes attached,” Sam said. “I don’t suppose I have a choice?”

“Nope!” Steve said, brightly.

“What will you draw?” Natasha asked, smirking.

“A model,” Steve said. He was about to suggest Maria, when she tilted her head, with a smile.

“Well if you cannot draw,” she said to Natasha. “I suppose you will have to do as the subject.”

Natasha looked surprised for only a moment before her expression settled into something thoughtful.

“I am very good at standing and being looked at.”

Maria grinned and helped Natasha up from where she was leaning. In the meantime, Steve set up a second station for Sam to join him. As he ran through the different materials with a much confused Sam, Natasha took place near the center of the room.

“May I?” Maria asked. Natasha inclined her head in assent and Maria began adjusting her carefully, hands guiding her shoulders and tipping her face just so to help her into a pose that would be favorable to their artists.

“Steve, I really can’t draw,” Sam hissed. “Do you think I’ll present myself favorably to her when she realizes I have all of the skill and merit of a particularly maladaptive child?”

“It’ll be fine!” Steve whispered urgently back to Sam. “I definitely have a plan!”

“That isn’t reassuring!” Sam hissed back.

“There,” Maria said, warmly. She held a red curl between two fingers, twisted it gently, and set it carefully against the side of Natasha’s face. “You look—ready.”

  
**art:** Maria gently adjusting Natasha's posture; **art by:** nalonzooo

Natasha smiled lazily up at her and after a breath, Maria moved away.

“The first step,” Steve obstructed, “is to get the model’s basic shape down on paper. I like charcoal for this.”

He picked up his pencil and Sam moved to do the same.

“It’s easier to begin larger and then move inward, larger shapes first and then smaller ones,” he said. He pressed the pencil to the top of his paper and was to begin his first downward stroke, when the whole process was interrupted.

“Steve, do you mind if I borrow—” Bucky’s voice cut through the solarium, before he came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. “What’s happening here?”

Steve, instantly irritated, turned over his shoulder.

“Can you not see we are _busy_?”

“I can see that you are making some kind of a spectacle, as usual,” Bucky said, easily. He looked at the group of them, his eyebrows furrowing at first and then, as he understood the situation, nearly rolling his eyes. “Dr. Hill, how did you come to be among such sordid company?”

“I was invited,” Maria said, amused. “I did not know you were still in the city, Bucky.”

“Just for another day or two,” Bucky said. “On business, for father. What is happening here?”

“I was just instructing Sam on the proper way to begin a drawing,” Steve said. He gave Bucky a dirty look. “You interrupted me in the middle of a very important lesson.”

“I cannot imagine what you have to say about drawing that is of import here,” Bucky said, casually.

“Hey!” Steve cried, affronted.

Bucky, for his part, gave him a grin and crossed the solarium at a pace so leisurely that it was almost certainly calculated to drive Steve mad.

“Natasha,” Bucky said, staring over Steve’s easel at her. “Why do you look like a Greek statue?”

“It’s my natural state of being,” Natasha said. “I am a goddess.”

“Every one of you is in dire need of assistance,” Bucky commented. “Although what kind, I could not say. You’re drawing her?”

“Sam and I both are,” Steve said.

“There is nothing on your canvas,” Bucky said. He stood behind Steve’s shoulder, poking his head forward, as though examining the blank white space.

Steve, annoyed, swatted him away.

“Yes, because you _interrupted_ me. Can you please sit somewhere else so that we may resume?”

“Hmm,” was what Bucky said in reply.

He took a turn about the room and, for whatever reason, all four of them paused, as though waiting for him to come to a decision. This was all very annoying to Steve, who had commanded the room but a minute before.

He was about to tell Bucky to go away again, when Bucky clapped his hands together.

“All right,” he said.

Steve blinked.

“All right?”

“Yes,” Bucky nodded. “I would be delighted to be your subject.”

Steve and Sam looked at one another.

“Are you trying to take the attention from me, Barnes?” Natasha looked at Bucky, eyes narrowed.

“There is enough attention for both of us, I daresay,” he said.

  
**art:** Bucky lounging on an armchair and asking Steve to draw him; **art by:** nalonzooo

He came and sat on the French armchair next to Natasha. Although he was in company, there was something rather louche about the way he was sitting, tilted sideways as he was, with a single leg propped up against the arm of the chair and dangling over the side.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, staring.

“I am positioning myself for my portrait,” Bucky said. “You will have to draw me, of course.”

“Me?” Steve blinked. “Why me?”

“You know me best,” he said.

“I know her too,” Steve pointed out.

“Natasha, will you let Steve draw me?” Bucky asked, tilted his head back to look up at the redhead.

“I don’t really care,” Natasha drawled. “As long as someone draws me. I’m getting impatient.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Steve muttered. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Fine. I will draw Bucky and Sam, you draw Natasha. Maria, are you sure you would not like to be a model as well? Apparently it is quite in demand.”

Maria laughed. “I’m quite fine, but thank you.”

“Well, get on with it!” Bucky said with a smirk from where he was lounging.

“I cannot stand you,” Steve mentioned, loudly, which only made everyone around him snicker. Then he picked up his charcoal pencil. “ _As_ I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted. You begin with the larger shapes of her—them. And then you make your way in, with details.”

  
In all honesty, watching someone draw was likely not too exciting, although Steve loved to do it himself. Once he had taught Sam the basics, the two of them fell into a quiet sort of rhythm, studying their subjects and committing them to paper as Bucky, Natasha, and Maria chatted lightly between them. Steve warned Bucky and Natasha to stay as still as possible, except for when he occasionally had to come out from behind his canvas to adjust them in some way.

The first time he did this, it was when he noticed the sun casting too much of a shadow under Natasha’s jawline. He looked over at Sam’s art and noticed he was struggling with the contrast, so he put his pencil down and went to move her lightly so that the lighting could be manageable again.

He went back to his easel and picked up the pencil, switching from Natasha to Bucky. He had the general shape of him down, even the shape of the chair behind him. Bucky was all long, slender lines and the smoothest of curves at the very edges. There was an elegance to him that Steve had never noticed before and, in truth, had never appreciated either. But here, committing Bucky to paper, Steve felt moved by the lines of his friend, by the delicate, almost understated beauty of him. He leaned forward to draw in a curl and stopped. He put his pencil down and left his position again.

“Hey,” Steve said, softly.

“Steve,” Bucky said, looking up at him. Bucky was always teasing Steve and, sometimes, was even harsh with him, but here, sitting lazily in the solarium, drenched in a shocking amount of sunlight, he looked up at Steve gently, almost softly.

Steve swallowed a bit, caught, again, by the objective, almost ethereal beauty of him. The light brushed along Bucky’s pale skin, glinting off the brown of his soft curls and nearly making his grey eyes glow.

“I need to move you a little,” Steve said. His voice was quieter than he meant for it to be, but Bucky didn’t seem to mind. Steve’s brain was a bit quieter too, a bit of buzzing in the background that he could not quite dispel. It was the silence of the moment, the gentle intimacy between the two, that made him feel so enchanted.

“Do what you need,” Bucky said. “I’m yours to do with as you will.”

  
**art:** Bucky sitting still as Steve adjusts his curls; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve didn’t flush at that, not really, but he did feel a warm drop in his stomach.

“Just a little,” he managed to say.

Bucky smiled at him as Steve shifted him. He guided Bucky’s arm closer to his stomach, brushing against Bucky’s hand as he settled it closer to the top of his thigh. Then he adjusted Bucky’s legs, so he was lounged more comfortably against the chair.

Pausing, Steve stepped back to look at him. He looked every bit the rich, handsome, genteel son he was. It was perfect, except—

His fingertips brushed against Bucky’s temple as he carefully moved some of his hair back, twisting and settling a curl against his cheekbone.

“There,” Steve said.

Bucky said nothing in return, simply looking up at him.

Steve took a step back and then another.

He returned to his easel, his chest fluttering a little more tightly than he was used to, but then again, he had had heart conditions all his life, so perhaps it was nothing more than that.

“Almost ready for paints,” Steve said into the room.

He returned to finish the charcoal portion of his piece, his head soft and muddy, with the intent to commit Bucky Barnes carefully from reality to drawing.

  
By the time Steve and Sam finished their paintings, the sun had fallen lower in the sky, the morning turning to noon turning rapidly toward twilight.

“I must return, I’m afraid,” Maria said, as Natasha and Bucky were finally released from their statue prisons.

Steve was putting away the paints and Sam helping.

“It could have been worse,” Sam said, looking at his rendition of Natasha. It looked...a bit like her, anyway. The red hair was unmistakable, at any rate.

“Oh, I think it’s lovely,” Maria said, over Sam’s shoulder.

Steve, washing a brush, turned immediately—almost hastily.

“No,” Sam said, with an embarrassed smile. “I mean it kind of looks like it could be her, but then you look at Steve’s and—”

“Different is not worse,” Maria said, returning Sam’s smile. “I don’t think comparison is needed.”

“I think art is all about comparison,” Sam laughed.

“Well you had a better subject, anyway,” Natasha said, looking at both portraits.

“Hey!” Bucky protested.

“It is a good subject,” Maria agreed. Natasha gave her a smile, which Maria was not shy about returning. “Would you mind if I kept it?”

“Not at all!” Steve said quickly, before Sam could open his mouth. He gave Sam a quick, meaningful look, and put his own brushes down. “It should go to a good home—someone who will appreciate the art and the artist.”

“I’ll have to find a frame for it,” Maria said to Sam. She sounded both pleased and grateful. “Something as beautiful to match the image, of course.”

“Oh, that’s too—” Sam started, until Steve gave him a pointed glare. “I mean that’s awfully generous of you. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Maria said, warmly.

Steve, incredibly pleased with the way this was all proceeding, was tilting forward to eagerly listen in, when he felt a malevolent presence at his shoulder. Specifically, he felt someone gently touch the back of his elbow.

“Hey,” Bucky said.

“Bucky,” Steve said, mouth twitching. “I thought I felt an unwelcome presence.”

Steve half turned, to watch Bucky stare over his shoulder at the rendering of him on canvas.

“What critiques do you have for me?”

There was a silence that met that question—Bucky quiet, when he rarely ever was.

“Come,” Steve said, after a moment. “I know you have something to say. About the technique or the focus or the frivolity—”

“Nothing,” Bucky said.

Steve paused.

“What?”

Bucky turned his face and Steve was startled to find how close it was to his own. His friend looked serious, his eyebrows knit lightly together, his mouth pressed into a soft line. Bucky’s grey eyes searched Steve for—something. Steve wasn’t sure what.

“Buck?”

Bucky stood so still, it nearly unnerved Steve. He was nearly about to say something else, when, suddenly, his friend relaxed. His demeanor shifted altogether, his breathing lighter, his expression less cloudy.

“I have nothing to say,” he said. “No critique to offer, one way or another. You have rendered me better than I deserve.”

Steve, surprised, turned toward his painting.

“I don’t know about—”

“Steve,” Bucky said, softly. “Take the compliment. I meant it.”

Steve was so unused to such a departure from their usual bickering, he found himself caught off guard. For a moment, Steve said nothing, simply searching Bucky’s face for something lighter—a joke, perhaps an indication he did not mean it at all. He found nothing of the sort.

“Thank you,” he said, finally.

Bucky smiled at him, pleased. He was so terribly close, Steve could feel the breath of him on him. For a moment, his chest tightened, thinking if Bucky moved an inch they would—

“I should get going,” Bucky said. “I’m calling in on the Carnegies for dinner.”

Steve blinked, the moment dissipating between them.

“Oh,” he said.

“Father has some official business proposal something or something,” Bucky said. He moved back, finding his hat where he left it on the glass table. “I do know Louise’s chef makes a roast I would be a fool to miss.”

“Yes,” Steve said, finding his voice after a moment. “Tell them hello, from me.”

“I certainly will.” Bucky put his hat on his head and settled Steve with his signature tilted, almost rakish, smile. Then he offered his arm to Maria, who had similarly finished her conversation with Sam and Natasha. “Can I walk you out, Doctor?”

“Yes, of course,” Maria said, taking his arm.

“I’ll have Vernon run Sam’s painting to you,” Steve said, trying to gather all of the moving pieces once again. He felt strangely out of sorts, although he could not say why. “Once it has set.”

“Thank you,” Maria said. The smile she gave Steve was grateful, and the one she gave Sam and Natasha something more.

Steve watched the two of them leave, arm-in-arm, their heads bent close together as they talked.

“Well that was successful,” Natasha said slowly, observing the same thing.

“I think so too,” Sam said. He wiped paint off his hands. “Insofar as whatever Steve’s planned, anyway. As for art, I think I’ve officially retired from the discipline.”

Natasha laughed at that and she and Sam began bantering lightly back and forth.

Steve, for his part, did not join in. He picked up his brushes and his paints, cleaning them and setting them away as he went.

The whole affair had left him feeling a little off-center, although, again, he could not say why.

When the three of them left the solarium, he turned back once, to stare at the portrait of Bucky standing near the center of the room, the colors of dusk falling softly around it.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is SO dumb and.........deeply annoying. But so is Bucky. That is why we love them both.
> 
> To all of those following along and commenting--thank you so much! I'm so delighted to have you along for the ride. ♥


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve planned closely with his mother to decorate the estate to rival Clayton, the Fricks’ Pittsburgh mansion—a tree in each room and tinsel and stringed popcorn and wreaths and baubles lighting up every inch mother and son could reach. This lifted Sarah’s spirits as well and by the time they received Tony’s invitation to have Christmas dinner at Stark Manor, Steve almost didn’t accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon reread, this chapter is actually so delightful?? Also Steve be dumb as hell. A warning for all.

**PART V.**

December was not pleasant inasmuch as the weather became even more brutal than November had foreshadowed. The wind held steady, while the air grew colder, and although it did not snow, the clouds hung white and heavy in the sky, threatening the city with more than just flurries given half the chance.

Winter was never Steve’s favorite season and it only had partially to do with his poor circulation and unfortunate penchant for catching whatever illness was sweeping through at the time. Sarah grew even more fretful every time Steve seemed as though he might be under the weather and, as a result, he was quarantined more than he wasn’t. For someone who liked his independence and to share his time among his friends, staying at home for days on end with only his mother, Vernon, and Florence for company drove him nearly out of his mind.

Still, most of December passed without him contracting anything worse than the sniffles, and with Sam so close by and a whole relationship to orchestrate, Steve had a pleasantly busy month by the time the holidays approached.

Bucky had left by then, gone up to his own estates and kept busy by his father, which left both Steve and his mother feeling a little lonelier in the wide, Brookfield halls. To make up for it, Steve planned closely with his mother to decorate the estate to rival Clayton, the Fricks’ Pittsburgh mansion—a tree in each room and tinsel and stringed popcorn and wreaths and baubles lighting up every inch mother and son could reach. This lifted Sarah’s spirits as well and by the time they received Tony’s invitation to have Christmas dinner at Stark Manor, Steve almost didn’t accept.

“Must we go?” Sarah asked, when it was just the two of them, sitting by the fire in the living room and stringing together more popcorn garlands. “It is so cold out and we’ve put in a lot of good work here.”

“Florence deserves a Christmas as well as we do, Ma,” Steve said, pushing a needle through a popcorn. “Anyway, it is rude to decline an invitation. We will have fun and we will eat our fill and—besides, I’ve heard Peggy and Angie will be there!”

“Oh, Peggy,” Sarah said, happily. “It’s been entirely too long. I told you your matchmaking would deprive us of her, but you never listen to your mother.”

Steve avoided her gaze dubiously and stuck more popcorn onto his string.

“It will be marvelous,” Steve said. “And if we grow tired before the end of the night, we can just come home. It’s not far at all.”

  
The Rogers family arrived to Stark Manor at precisely a quarter past three on Christmas Day in a private, horse-drawn streetcar that they technically owned, but only used when Sarah was accompanying Steve somewhere. The day was as cold as it had been for weeks, the air so chill that it hurt Steve to breathe in too deeply. They were wrapped in furs and hats, and although the inside of the carriage was warmed, Steve still found himself rubbing his fingers together in an attempt to thaw them. Outside, the clouds were heavy enough that Sarah worried at her fur, looking out the window and fretting.

“Oh, what if the weather turns bad?” she said, her face drawn and her blue eyes—Steve’s eyes—reflecting the grey-white sky.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Steve said, looking upward out of the carriage window as well. In all fairness, it looked like it _could_ snow—his mother’s paranoia was not completely unreasonable—but they were only twenty-odd blocks or so from home and surely their car would be suitable to draw them home in a little snow.

“This is a bad idea,” his mother said, anyway. “Oh, darling, should we turn back?”

“We can’t turn back,” Steve said. “Everyone is expecting us and anyway, there is a whole lemon cake next to you that you made for some reason, although the crystal dish from Tiffany’s would more than do.”

“Well I did not want to be _rude_ ,” Sarah scolded Steve. “What would Maria Stark have thought, if we showed up with nothing in hand?”

“The crystal _dish_ , Ma,” Steve said again, but Sarah just shook her head insistently.

Steve understood these were the kinds of things that kept high society genteel, but, in truth, he had little patience for these orchestrated niceties. He merely sighed and rifled through the small sketchbook he carried on his person as the streetcar jostled them down Fifth Avenue.

“It will be fine,” Steve said, definitively. He closed his book and smiled as they crossed toward mid-town and Stark Manor. “I am quite looking forward to seeing everyone. It’s been a long winter and a bit of merriment would do us all some good.”

“If you say so,” his mother said, sitting back in her seat with a sigh. “Although what could be merrier than spending Christmas with your mother at home, as you usually do, where you are much less likely to catch illness than around a whole dinner of other people?”

Steve laughed at that and leaned forward to give Sarah a warm kiss on the cheek.

“Why nothing at all,” he said. “But this way, we get a lot more food out of it.”

*

Stark Manor was decorated to rival anything the Astors or the Vanderbilts could have conceived, which was, undoubtedly, the point. Steve and his mother by themselves had done Brookfield the justice they could, but it paled in comparison to what Tony and Maria had their servants do here. The estate _glimmered_ —walls sparkling with candles and lights, with glittering wreaths hung above the mantles of numerous fireplaces, and golden garlands and dripping silver strands of tinsel covering what space was left unadorned. There was an enormous Christmas tree in each room, also heavy with ornament and bows, and little flickering lights and lamps that Steve had never had the opportunity to see before, but which took his breath away regardless.

“Oh, my,” Sarah said, looking around them as they were greeted by Jarvis and ushered toward the sitting room, and Steve did not disagree.

“Welcome, welcome all!” Tony said, before Steve or his mother had a moment to look at the other guests or greet any of them at all. “Merry Christmas, friends! Mrs. Rogers, you’re looking beautiful, as always, is that a new fur? Mother will be green with envy when she realizes she doesn’t have a thing that looks like it. Have you seen our new piano? I do know you were an accomplished player when you were younger—Jarvis, would you stop standing there and show her the piano? What do we even pay you for? Yes, I know you do other things, but do this too. Steve, you replied to the invitation so late I thought you were going to insult me by not showing at all, that’s really not in good faith, is it? I almost had to find someone else to invite in your place, and you can imagine the scandal that would have caused—hey, is that lemon cake for us?”

Steve took a deep, settling breath and tried to smile through the immediate spike of annoyance that boiled in the pit of his stomach. Tony, as ever, meant well, but that did not change the absolute _Tony Stark_ of him all.

“This is for dessert,” Steve said, handing the wrapped lemon cake to Tony. “It’s Ma’s specialty, based on an old family recipe.”

“She made it herself?” Tony blinked. It was true that genteel women did not often cook for themselves, although his look of almost comical bemusement nearly made Steve roll his eyes.

“She likes her hobbies,” Steve says and presses the cake into Tony’s hands. “And Florence might have helped.”

“I’ll have Edie come and bring it to the table.” Tony turned around, looking for one of his servants. “Edie? Edith! Now, where did that girl get to?”

Steve, not wanting to be within the sphere of Tony Stark for longer than he could help it, immediately slipped away, to catch Peggy and Angie by the tree.

“Oh, Steve!” Peggy exclaimed in delight and wrapped him in a warm embrace that Steve felt from his tip to his toes.

“Peggy,” Steve said happily, his slight arms going around her slight waist. “You have lied to me.”

“Who, me?” Peggy asked, pulling back in surprise.

“You said you would visit just as often as you ever did, and yet here it is December and I have only seen you a few times since your wedding,” Steve said. He sounded cross, but he looked so happy that there was no mistaking how he really felt.

“I told you to come visit us in Brooklyn, and have you?” Peggy laughed.

“Pah!” Steve said. “Brooklyn!”

Angie embraced Steve as well and the three spent a short time warmly and excitedly catching up. Behind them, the large tree swayed very gently as others also came and inspected the ornaments and, once, when Tony’s fat, orange cat—Mrs. Posey—brushed against the bottom branches before darting away.

  
Eventually, others joined them as well—the doors opened to show Rhodey, Maria Hill, and Natasha, each looking their own brand of awed and overwhelmed and dressed in their Christmas finest. Steve was deep in conversation with Peggy and Angie over their thoughts on Art Nouveau and Louis Tiffany’s work, when Jarvis led in the last of their party.

“What happened to you?” Steve interrupted his own conversation to stare at Bucky, who looked as windswept as he’d ever seen him.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Steve,” Bucky said, trying to run his fingers through his wild, loose curls, “but it is winter outside.”

“Yes, the season had not escaped me,” Steve said, dryly. “But why do you look as though you have just come in from sailing?”

Bucky smirked, brushing his hair into some semblance of decency and then replacing his hat on his head.

“I walked and the wind got the better of me.”

“You walked,” Steve said, blinking. Then, shocked, “Wait, you _walked_? From where!”

“The West side,” Bucky said. “I had business and I lost track of myself.”

Steve, stepping away from Peggy and Angie, crowded closer to Bucky. His jacket was rumpled and his bowtie all askew, because he did not have the good sense to have taken a _car_.

“That is so improper,” Steve said, immediately going to straighten Bucky’s bowtie. “To arrive at a party, having _walked_ all over Manhattan.”

“I daresay Tony Stark doesn’t really care what is proper or not,” Bucky said, amused. He held still as Steve fidgeted with his tie and then began smoothing out his shoulders and the lapels of his jacket.

“But others do! And your shoes will be ruined!” Steve said, crossly. “Ugh. Why are you like this?”

Bucky looked down at him with unconcealed amusement. Steve ignored this and continued fixing his older friend, even reaching up to run a finger through his hair, correcting upset curls, and brushing them away from his face.

“There,” Steve said, after he was done. “Now you look presentable, at least.”

Bucky said nothing for a moment, his cheeks warming with color.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Hmph,” Steve replied. “You are late anyway and—is that Clint?”

Bucky did not even pretend to look over his shoulder, where the other blond man was standing, dazed, listening to Tony Stark prattle on about something he clearly had no idea about.

“Yes,” Bucky said. “I brought him with me. He had no other plans and why should that stop him from having a good Christmas?”

“Ugh,” Steve said. “Oh, Natasha is going to have a fit.”

“Natasha can handle herself,” Bucky said, with a grin.

Steve wasn’t so sure about that. She had been talking to Maria closely, but had apparently caught sight of Clint in the meantime. Her green eyes narrowed and she stopped speaking abruptly, the dislike and displeasure clear on his face.

“Well, maybe not,” Bucky commented, watching the same thing. “At least it’s someone else’s Christmas dinner and not ours she’ll ruin.”

“Bucky!” Steve said and reached over to pinch him.

“Hey!” Bucky exclaimed and jumped away from him.

“Serves you right, you rotten fiend.”

Bucky opened his mouth to retort, but then a chiming cut through the room, interrupting all conversations. The crowd, all pleasantly warm and speaking to one another in good company, looked toward Jarvis.

“Ahem, excuse me,” the butler said. “Dinner will now be served. If you will make your way to the dining room. Thank you.”

  
The group sat themselves around the enormous table in no real order, but one which made sense nonetheless—Tony next to Rhodey, Sarah next to Maria Stark, Maria and Natasha and then Bucky separating her from Clint, and Steve across from him, with Peggy and Angie to his left. The company was bright, full of laughter, and teasing, but it was, somehow, secondary to the feast that had the long table buckling under its weight.

The Stark kitchen had been told to prepare a feast, but what it had prepared would, in truth, put most feasts to shame. There were platters of cheeses and salted nuts, cranberries and thin-sliced meats, roast potatoes and brussels sprouts, fresh mushrooms on toast, asparagus, and French peas. There were small patties of oyster crabs, braised fillets of beef, and almond soup with rice. There was roast turkey with cranberry sauce and ham, braised duck, baked quail, and fresh, baked rolls. As if that did not set the company full to bursting, dinner was followed by Christmas plum pudding, peach pie, chocolate salted caramels, three kinds of Neapolitan cakes, and lady’s fingers to eat alongside coffee, tea, and four kinds of wine. Among all of that, it would have been easy to forget Sarah’s lemon cake, but it was out too, and both Tony and Rhodey liked it so much that they ignored most of the dessert selections to finish half the cake between them.

“I am so full, I might burst!” Bucky said, stretching a little in his chair and patting his tummy.

“No one told you to eat so much,” Steve muttered, as though he too, was not nearly comatose under all of the food he had eaten. In particular, he could not stop eating the chocolate salted caramels, which were the perfect mix of sweet and salty and were, unfortunately, set right in front of him.

“I do not have to be told to make the decision for myself,” Bucky said. He yawned, a bit drowsily, which Steve felt a deep connection to. Despite the tea and the sugar, he was so filled with turkey and potatoes and plum pudding that he could have laid his head down on the table and gone to sleep immediately. He supposed all of the wine hadn’t helped.

“I am too warm and full to deal with you tonight,” Steve said.

“I will count that as a Christmas blessing,” Bucky grinned.

He picked up his glass of wine as Clint leaned across from him, apparently having heard something that Natasha had said. Natasha’s eyes narrowed in irritation and Steve rolled his at all of them as he picked up another salted caramel.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Peggy, next to him, remarked. She, too, was finishing off her wine as she surveyed the setting around them.

The food was slowly being taken care of, to say nothing of the drink. Everyone seemed well settled in their conversations—there was laughter from where Maria and Angie were talking rapidly and too much chatter from Tony’s end of the table, where he was holding court, and in the middle, Natasha and Clint were bickering over a Bucky who was watching it all with barely restrained bemusement.

“If you were not so far away now, we could have evenings like this more often,” Steve said. If he sounded petulant, it’s only because he felt that way.

Peggy chuckled warmly at that, mouth full of wine.

“I know it’s not ideal,” she said. “I miss you and your mother very much.”

Steve looked past her, where Angie was leaning forward on her arms to say something to Maria. She was beautiful, of course, all dark curls and soft edges, and with a kindness and sharp wit that could only match Peggy’s own—but he still was not sure she was worth _all this_. Peggy living so far away from them. Peggy leaving her family to be with only her.

“But you are happy,” Steve said, carefully.

Next to her, Angie began laughing and the look Peggy gave her was so fond that it made Steve feel a bit queer.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I am very happy.”

“And it’s worth it?” Steve asked.

Peggy rested her hand softly on Angie’s elbow. For her part, Angie turned toward her, her face shining. Although it was not particularly proper at the dinner table, Peggy leaned forward and kissed her gently, quickly. Angie looked pleased, brushing her fingertips against Peggy’s face. But there was no more to their interaction before she turned back to her conversation and Peggy back to hers.

“There are many reasons to marry, Steve,” Peggy said. “For some, it is a most utilitarian act, for others, a necessity. We’re a society of people for whom marriage is necessary to be proper and to be...financially stable.”

Steve frowned.

“But the luckiest, I think,” she said, “are those who have the luxury of marrying for love. When you find the person you are meant to spend your life with, the person who complements you and who you find you cannot live without—it is worth the sacrifices you must make, to keep them.”

Steve didn’t know about all of that.

“There’s no necessity for me to marry,” he said. “I am not in need for anything, and I have mother besides.”

Peggy smiled.

“There are different kinds of companionship,” she said. “One day, I think, you will understand the difference.”

Steve made a face and reached for his own wine.

“I doubt that,” he said. “There isn’t a person in the world I could not live without. Other than you, but you have already left me.”

Peggy laughed at that, warm and amused.

“I will remember you have said this,” she said and raised her crystal goblet to her mouth. “On the day you find your other half.”

Down the table, Bucky’s voice suddenly rang out in a bright peal of laughter. Steve turned to glare at him, which Bucky must have sensed because he turned his gaze back on Steve and gave him a most cheeky, indolent smile. Steve did not stick his tongue out at him, but it was not for lack of _wanting_ to.

He turned his attention back to Peggy, who was watching him with some half-concealed amusement.

Anyway, Steve did not like her insinuation at all, but he supposed that was the folly of speaking with a happily married woman. Steve really was so very happy for Peggy, but he knew himself as well. He was perfectly happy bringing others together, while being alone himself.

  
The group migrated from the dinner table eventually, back to the living room, where half of them lounged on the chairs and the other half gathered around the tree and the fireplace, chattering.

It was a warm, lethargic, happy kind of party, with equal parts laughter and argument, whereby Peggy and Angie found themselves under a mistletoe and were made to kiss to more than one cheer and Natasha and Clint argued loudly by the fire, while Tony and Rhodey made to intervene.

“Should we do something about that?” Maria asked, next to Steve. The two of them were inspecting the various ornaments on the tree, while Clint raised his voice and Natasha hissed angrily. Tony appeared to try and speak over both of them, while Rhodey, at his elbow, was groaning at his friend’s lack of awareness.

“I don’t think there is anything we can do,” Steve said.

“What made them dislike one another so much?” Maria said. She watched them closely, with a frown, while Steve shrugged.

“It’s always been like that,” he said. He leaned closer to a round ornament made of glass, with swirls of color inside. “Ever since they met. They immediately got off on the wrong foot, although it’s unclear to me what was said by whom. But Clint can’t say a thing without setting her off and everything Natasha says, Clint disagrees with.”

“I would not want her as an enemy,” Maria observed.

“I think they enjoy themselves,” Steve said, although that was not the case at all. He was pretty sure that, given the opportunity, Natasha would not hesitate to slip a blade in between Clint’s ribs, but that, he suspected, was not an observation for good company. “Sam wishes he could have come, but he’s unfortunately come down with a cold.”

“Oh,” Maria said and Steve was pleased to find she looked concerned. “Christmas is about the worst time to be sick as any. And we’re a sorrier group for our loss of him.”

“I feel dreadful for him,” he said. “I know he was looking forward to your company again.”

That, Maria looked surprised by.

“He was?”

“Yes!” Steve said, eagerly. “He had such fun when we were all gathered at Brookfield. I saw you two speaking at length.”

Maria smiled at that. She reached out to touch an ornament that looked like a little toy soldier.

“He’s quite fun to talk to,” she said. “Very calming and level-headed, but with a smart sense of humor. Just what I like in a person. We’ve sent a few letters back and forth since, actually.”

Steve was nearly beside himself with pleasure.

“Really? Letters?”

“There were a few matters he asked me about,” she said, mysteriously. “So I told him to write and he did. He’s such a warm acquaintance, I see why you’re so fond of him.”

“I _am_ fond of him,” Steve said, proudly. “You two make a smart coup—friends. I’m glad you’ve gotten on so well. I just knew you would!”

“Well, his company is missed,” Maria said again, with genuine warmth. “You’ll tell him I said that, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Steve said, nodding. “Yes, I will most certainly tell him that.”

Maria looked pleased, although no one could have been half as happy as Steve, who knew that, once more, his instincts had been absolutely correct.

“Hey,” Bucky said, from across the room, then. “Is it snowing?”

  
“Oh I knew it!” Sarah said, looking out the window with worry. “I feared this would happen.”

Everyone crowded to the side of the room, faces pressed to the cold glass, and looked up at the swirling snowflakes coming down from the dark, night sky.

“Snow!” Steve said, delighted. “On Christmas!”

It was as agreed that this was a wonderful turn of events as it was that it would make getting back home much more difficult. That made Sarah fret even more than she had before and the general consensus was that the group would have to depart before the snowfall grew heavier. Still, being mostly young and full of Christmas cheer as they were, no one—except Sarah—really protested when Tony said, “Well, should we go out for a bit first?”

They donned fur coats and hats, scarves, and gloves. Steve laughed as Clint appeared with a fur hat twice the size of his head and laughed less when his mother fussed over him, making him wear two scarves instead of one, because she worried about his health and blood circulation besides.

“Ma,” Steve complained, in company, but braver souls than the ones in that room had cowered before Sarah Rogers’s devotion to keeping her son safe and well. So they only snickered in amusement at Steve’s ire, but made no indication they had heard otherwise.

The sounds of merriment in the streets did not only come from their party, although they were making their fair share of noise. Each of them grew louder in the fresh, cold air, laughing and happily bickering as the snow drifted into their hair and on top of their shoulders, crystal snowflakes dusting their cheeks and catching on their eyelashes.

Clint said something stupid and Natasha tried to trip him onto the sidewalk, while Tony began rambling loudly about whatever latest article he had read about meteorology, not that anyone was listening, and in the meantime, Peggy, Angie, and Maria were attempting to catch the fluff on their leather gloves.

“This is absolute mayhem,” Bucky said, close to Steve’s ear.

Steve, for his part, had his face tilted up toward the sky. The cold was sinking through his coat, certainly, and his lungs were already beginning to hurt, but he ignored them all diligently, so happy was he to be out in the snow.

“It’s been a long winter,” Steve said. He opened his mouth to try and catch flakes on his tongue. “Let us have some fun, you old spoilsport.”

Bucky snorted at that and Steve thought he was going to try to scold him, but, instead, he opened his mouth as well.

Steve turned his head to look at him for a moment—Bucky’s familiar face silhouetted in the moonlight, the light making the angles of his cheeks glow. The snowflakes caught on his brows and eyelashes, making him seem as though he was sparkling under the gas lamp.

Bucky often looked older and, sometimes, even stern, but there were times—like now—when Steve was reminded he was not so much more than him and that, actually, Steve had spent much of his life conspiring with him. It was a strange friendship to have, but then, Bucky had always been a strange and comfortable part of Steve’s life.

“Why are you staring at me?” Bucky asked, not opening his eyes.

  
**art:** Bucky, his face glowing as Steve watches him; **art by:** nalonzooo

“You are right there,” Steve said. “What else am I to look at?”

Bucky laughed at that, opening his eyes and tilting his face to look at Steve. His eyes glowed too, the moonlight catching the light blue and making it appear even brighter, even more translucent than usual.

“Literally anything else,” he said. “Are you still up to all sorts of mischief?”

“That depends,” Steve said. “What kind of mischief?”

Bucky looked over at Maria, who was leaning over Peggy’s shoulder to look at something.

“Oh, that,” Steve grinned. He leaned toward Bucky, conspiratorially. “That is going _very_ well. Maria’s feelings are quite strong, as are Sam’s. They will be engaged to be married any day now!”

Bucky, for some reason, looked at Steve strangely.

“Are you sure?” he said and looked back over at her again.

“Yes,” Steve said, confidently. “Quite.”

Bucky did not look convinced. Natasha shoved past Clint, face full of ire, and Maria left Peggy to catch Natasha by the elbow.

“I think you are quite mistaken,” Bucky murmured. “You’re wasting your time.”

“You always think I’m wasting my time,” Steve said, annoyed. He turned away from the situation, turned away from Bucky. “I am right and I will not be sorry to hear you admit it when you see just how right I am.”

Bucky said nothing to that, which only irritated Steve more. He rankled, as he often did with his old friend, and made to stomp away through the snow when Bucky came after him, caught him by the wrist and turned him.

“Come now,” Bucky said. His cheeks were pink in the cold, his hands icy on Steve’s own. “It’s Christmas, friend. Let us not fight.”

“We are always fighting,” Steve said, a little petulantly.

“Well, let us not fight _again_ ,” Bucky said. He sounded somewhat apologetic. Not nearly enough for Steve’s taste, but then Jarvis came outside with a tray of hot wine and Steve lost his train of thought.

They each got a cup of it, the heat radiating from the metal mugs to warm their hands. It was a welcome change from how cold they had all gotten, although no one made any moves to go back inside. By then, everyone was covered with a thin sheet of white. Every time Steve shook his head, snowflakes would fall off of his hat onto his shoulders and his face.

“Toast me, Steve,” Bucky said, warmly.

Steve was so distracted by then that he forgot his ire of just minutes before.

“A toast!” Steve cried, loudly.

“A toast!” everyone shouted back.

“To good friends—good company—and good wine,” Steve said, raising his mug. “May we have it, may we cherish it, and if we do not, may we drink enough that we think we have the other things.”

Everyone laughed at that, but it was a good enough toast for the moment.

“Cheers!” everyone said, clinking their mugs against whoever was nearest to them.

“Merry Christmas!” Steve shouted.

“Merry Christmas,” Bucky grinned, next to him.

“My special toast for _you_ is, may you learn I am always right,” Steve grinned back. He raised his mug to be clinked against.

“You are so rotten,” Bucky said, but it was all in good nature. “My toast for you then is may you be right, once, one day. I should like to hear that it happened, although I have no desire to be in the same room as you when it does.”

“Hey!” Steve protested, but the damage was done. Bucky clinked his mug against Steve’s and Steve had to drink to that, although he made a face at Bucky as he did so.

“Come, come,” Bucky said and slung an arm over Steve’s shoulder.

He pulled Steve close, Steve tucked neatly into his side. They had often been tactile, growing up, but it had been some years since Bucky, flush with drink, or otherwise, had been so free with Steve. It reminded Steve of when they were younger and, bored, their fathers talking, when they would tangle together while Bucky read aloud and Steve tried to elbow him to see the pictures on the page. This was not the same thing, of course, but the closeness was and the—familiarity. The way Steve fit perfectly into Bucky’s side, just as he ever had.

“To where?” Steve asked, warily. “To what end?”

“To here, to there, does it matter?” Bucky grinned, broadly. “It’s time you get a little creative!”

“You are drunk,” Steve said.

“Happily so, old friend,” Bucky said and, lazily, without thought, pressed a kiss against the cold of Steve’s hair. “Happily so.”

  
**art:** Bucky pressing a kiss to Steve's forehead, while snow falls around them; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve, warmed by Bucky’s body heat and the smell of Bucky’s fragrance, flushed from his comfort and, despite his better judgment, did not try to pull away. Instead, he smiled and leaned against him, and if his chest felt warmer than usual, then he attributed the twist to the glow of the street lamps, the gently falling snow, and the powder soft moment of a Christmas well spent.

*

By the time the snow started up in earnest, it wasn’t just Sarah Rogers who was feeling nervous about getting home. Peggy and Angie needed to make it back to Brooklyn and Bucky, who had not come by car, had to find a way back toward his estate near Mt. Vernon. Steve had told him to stay at Brookfield, of course, but Bucky had thanked him and Sarah for their hospitality, saying he needed to get back home to attend to matters.

“Then at least take our streetcar,” Steve said. He did not like to fret, but the snow was falling more steadily and the streets were becoming slippery with the wet, slick fluff.

“You and Sarah will need to get back home,” Bucky said. He had his hat in hand and snowflakes melting in the soft brown of his hair. He ran a hand through it, shaking them out, which meant everything around him was speckled with cold, little droplets, Steve included.

“Hey!” he protested and Bucky grinned at him apologetically. “I should make you walk home, for your foolish behavior. But I am kind and magnanimous and do not wish for you to catch pneumonia.”

“I would thank you for your generosity, but I know for a fact that you are simply going to hold it over my head for the rest of our lives,” Bucky said.

That made Steve grin, as he settled his hat properly on his head.

“Perhaps that will serve as a reminder to be appropriate next time,” he said.

“Not a chance,” Bucky said. He tucked in his scarf, gave Steve a wink, and went to give Tony and his mother his thanks.

Everyone gathered their coats and furs and scarves, saying their goodbyes, with rushed kisses on cheeks and plans to meet again soon after the new year passed, if not before.

“We will call on you more, of course,” Peggy said, kissing Steve’s cheek warmly and wrapping him in a familiar, welcome embrace.

“Do come visit us in Brooklyn, Mrs. Rogers,” Angie, likewise, gave Sarah a hug.

“Brooklyn!” Sarah Rogers exclaimed and Peggy and Steve both grinned at Angie’s barely hidden expression of exasperation.

Peggy and Angie got into their carriage and Bucky and Sarah into the one just behind them. Natasha slid into an empty one and, much to her displeasure, Clint followed her in just after.

“Oh, I forgot my scarf!” Steve exclaimed and ran inside to retrieve it.

But the time he ran back out, the cars were rattling away, leaving Steve flustered, until Maria stuck her head out of the remaining one and gestured him in.

“Oh, thanks,” Steve said, puffing a little, as she pulled him up into the carriage. “I didn’t know they were going to leave without me!”

“I think everyone’s in a bit of a rush now that the snow is falling so heavily,” Maria said. She shut the door behind him and the driver took that as indication to usher the horses forward.

“I’m not out of your way, am I?” Steve asked, rubbing his gloved fingers together.

“Not at all,” Maria said. “I live on the other side of the park, but we can cut through after dropping you off.”

Steve was grateful for her kindness and they spent the first few minutes of the ride discussing their meal and evening and jostling as the carriage slowly went over bumps in the street. The snow was falling more steadily outside, the cold fogging up the glass of the car. Steve pressed a thumb to it and drew a small star that soon fogged over again.

“Don’t tell my mother, but I actually love the snow,” Steve said, giving Maria a sly grin. “It’s dreadful for me, but there’s something so...magical about positioning your face up and catching snowflakes on your tongue.”

“She’d worry, wouldn’t she?” Maria asked, with a smile. “She worries about you a lot.”

“I know she means well,” Steve said. “And I adore her, of course. But she’s never been the same since my father passed. Every little thing makes her afraid.”

“But not you,” Maria observed.

Steve sat back against the cushions, his fingers fidgeting with the ends of his scarf.

“Some things scare me,” Steve said. “But not much. I guess I don’t see the point of being afraid.”

There was silence between them a moment and then Maria pressed a gloved hand to the corner of her mouth.

“What about the big things?” she asked.

“The big things?” he looked at her questioningly.

“The life things. Where you are going to be, who you will be when you get there,” Maria said, carefully. “Who to love and how to love them.”

That startled Steve, although he was careful not to show it.

“Who to love?” he asked.

Suddenly, Maria looked away from the window and looked straight at him. It wasn’t at all how she had ever looked at him before—the intensity to which she watched him was hot; it burned brightly across his suddenly cold skin. She looked at once scrutinizing and soft, both vulnerable and terribly, almost desperate. It made him feel uneasy; queer.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

“Steve,” Maria said quietly, almost softly.

He swallowed, panic rising in his throat.

“Steve, I—” Maria started and suddenly the carriage jostled so terribly over a stone in the road that the two of them pitched forward, Maria nearly falling onto Steve and both of their mouths clunking together.

“Maria, no!” Steve cried out and scrambled away from her.

“Steve—” Maria said, looking shocked.

Steve’s heart hammered in his chest, a noise in his head that he did not quite like. The two of them hurried to straighten themselves and flatten themselves against the opposite sides of the carriage as quickly as they could.

“I’m so sorry,” Maria said. “The car—”

“It’s Sam, remember!” Steve said. He did not sound frightened, but he almost felt that way.

“Sam?” Maria asked, clearly confused. “What about Sam?”

“He—you—the two of you are to see each other,” Steve said—no, insisted. “Remember? He’s the reason why—”

“Sam?” Maria said, louder now. “You think I’m interested in—Sam?”

Steve’s heart thud loudly in his ears.

This was a terrible, terrible mistake, he thought. How could he have misjudged everything so terribly?

“I could never,” Maria said, perplexed, and this, more than anything, spurred Steve beyond his shock.

“What? Why not?” he said, loudly—indignantly. “What is wrong with Sam?”

“Nothing, but—”

“He is the kindest person you will ever meet,” Steve said, hotly. “He’s funny and he’s kind and he’s intelligent and accomplished—”

“Steve, please listen—” Maria tried, but Steve rolled over her.

“He might not be of means, but you would be lucky to have him!” he said. “Anyone would! Listen to me, when I say you would be _foolish_ to ignore—”

“Steve,” Maria said, finally loud enough that it stopped Steve’s seething.

He looked up at her, chest heaving a little from effort, wild-eyed and ready to toss himself from the carriage if she made another attempt at him.

“I don’t want Sam,” Maria said. She flushed, pink high in her cheeks. She, too, seemed to be heaving a little, perhaps a little out of anxiety, perhaps somewhat out of embarrassment. “I’m terribly sorry if that’s the impression I gave.”

“Maria—”

“But I don’t want you either,” she said. She wrung her gloves. “Oh I—gosh, I didn’t want to tell you it this way, but—”

  
**art:** Maria, nervous to tell Steve something; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve, utterly confused now, just stared at her.

“Natasha,” Maria said, with some pain. “I was wondering—I was hoping for—”

“Natasha?” Steve blinked.

“Steve,” Maria said. “I’m so sorry for misleading you—and Sam. That wasn’t my intention. I could not be with Sam, as delightful and wonderful and accomplished as he is. I want—well, I believe like women.”

Steve Rogers was not rendered speechless often, but that was not to say that it had not happened once or twice in his life. He found himself without words now, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“Oh, you had set Peggy and Angie together,” Maria said, fretfully. She continued to color, except now she looked more nervous than anything. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I haven’t told anyone, really. Not even my father.”

Steve shut his mouth as quickly as he could, his head spinning.

“Well—I mean, would he mind?”

“I don’t know,” Maria said. She took a breath. “I don’t think so. But maybe. Are you upset?”

“Upset—” Steve said and then, at her look, he shook his head. “No, not upset. A little confused. I think I misread a few...signs.”

Maria nodded. She stopped twisting her gloves between her hands and straightened the skirt of her dress instead.

“Maria,” Steve said, not liking how quiet she had gotten. “I think it’s—great.”

“Great?” she said, after a moment.

“Well, not that I know very much of love myself,” Steve said, offering her a smile. “But I am led to believe it is a marvelous thing. And who cares whether a man or woman brings you that, so long as you are happy in it?”

Maria was certainly not good enough friends with Steve for him to speak so intimately with her, but given what had happened in this small space and her confession—and the look of relief on her face—Steve felt he might be given this allowance, this once.

She nodded again, but with less tense lines this time.

“I cannot speak for my friend, but she would be lucky to have you. And if not Natasha, then someone else,” Steve said. “Someone who will be just right for you.”

The car chose just then to roll to a slow stop in front of Brookfield. For half a minute, they sat in silence, the snow falling gently against the carriage roof and Steve left with nothing but the slightly awkward quiet and the sound of his heart in his ears.

Then Maria let out a long breath, as though she had been holding it within her all day.

“Thank you,” she said. “For your friendship. And for your...ear.”

“I will ask,” Steve said. “After Natasha. Although that is a frightful task to hold anyone to, so if I fail, please do not hold it against me. She is my dear friend and she scares me very much.”

At long last, that made Maria’s face soften again, her laughter warming the inside of the car.

“She is rather terrifying, isn’t she?” Maria asked. “That is why I like her so much.”

“Oh sure,” Steve said, getting up from his seat as the driver came to his side and opened the car door. “If you like that sort of thing. I myself prefer someone with duller claws.”

“I can imagine,” Maria said, amused. “Seeing as how you are the one with the claws yourself.”

Steve grinned at that and, getting out of the car, winked at her.

“Until next time, friend,” he said. “Tell your father I said hello, won’t you?”

“That I will,” Maria replied.

“And anything else you might tell him—” Steve said and then stopped. Gently, he smiled. “Well, I wish for you the best of luck.”

“Thank you, Steve,” Maria said.

The driver closed the car door and returned to the front of the streetcar. Then, with a shake of the reins, he urged the horses forward, and they took off down the street.

  
Steve stood in the falling snow, looking after the retreating horses and car. He was happy for Maria, he truly was. It was his mistake and although this left him in a rather difficult position, he could not begrudge her this—not when it was what she needed to be true to herself. Her happiness was more important than his carefully made plans.

Still, it didn’t help his situation at all.

“Oh, drat,” he muttered to himself and crossly put on his hat. “Bucky will be delighted to hear he was right all along.”

He turned on his heels and went up the path toward the front door, trying to think of how he could tell Sam the terrible news and—how he could get away with Bucky never finding out.

*


	6. VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a time of rejuvenation, the spring bringing renewed spirit to the city. It lifted Steve’s grey spirits as well, the gloom of winter finally sloughing off to an energy he had not felt in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway (!) through this silly ride. Thank you to everyone who has been leaving lovely comments so far. You've really given me a burst of serotonin in these grey, gloomy days. ♥

**PART VI.**

**SPRING.**

It was always in that wet cusp between winter and spring that his body had some sort of physical reaction to being alive. Oh Steve had gotten his fair share of pneumonia and bad colds and other illnesses during the cold, wet season, but there was something about the seasons turning that made his body particularly miserable and uninhabitable.

It was the same now, in the spring of 1891, when his seasonal allergies were particularly bad and just as he’d thought the worst of winter was over, that he caught a dreadful cold. It was not as bad as some he’d had and his mother checked his temperature four times a day to make sure he wasn’t running a fever, but he would not have recommended it to anyone, certainly.

Steve had never been particularly great at being sick. He had been sick all too often when he was younger and even now, he grew cold much easier than anyone else he knew, and although he knew, logically, that should mean he was better at handling it than others—through sheer practice, if nothing else—the clear fact was that he wasn’t. When Steve was sick, he ached more and he grew fatigued more often than usual, and he felt so miserable altogether that he either did his best to drive his mother mad or he stopped talking altogether. It wasn’t an attractive trait, he knew, but it wasn’t a purposeful one either. He did not mean it maliciously, only that he felt so terrible and was overall so miserable that he could not help but act any other way.

The cold he caught now made his head ache during the day and gave him the chills at night. He was never with fever, but his appetite grew dull and his eyes were heavy and he sneezed and coughed in repetition until his throat grew sore and his nose dry and rough from wiping.

His mother confined him to his room, much to his great displeasure, and would not let anyone up to see him, not even Sam, which meant that Steve was lonely and also spent most of his sick time either sleeping or fretting about how to break Sam’s heart. His sleep was, as a result, fitful.

He was, thus, surprised to wake one day to find someone sitting next to his bed.

“What are you doing here?” Steve croaked, as rough as his throat was.

“You were driving your mother out of her mind,” Bucky said, flipping to the next page of his book. “She needed help and it was a slow day at work.”

Steve frowned and managed to sit up in bed. He had been sleeping so much of late that everything was moving much slower than usual—his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his throat and mouth were dry, and his thoughts sluggish. He rubbed his eyes and Bucky immediately put down his book.

“Hey, here.” Bucky rose and poured water from a crystal pitcher into a glass and took it over to Steve.

“Thanks,” Steve said and gratefully took the glass from him. He drank quickly, thirstier than he realized. He swallowed all of it within a few gulps and when he finished, Bucky had the pitcher again to pour him more.

“You’ve been sleeping for some time,” Bucky said, with a frown. “Are you sure you don’t have a fever?”

Steve shook his head.

“Ma takes my temperature every other hour. I had a light one yesterday, but nothing to worry about.”

“You could not pay Sarah Rogers to stop worrying about you,” Bucky said. It was said with amusement, but there was a slight line between his eyebrows. “You look…”

“Terrible?” Steve said. He chuckled, but was interrupted halfway through with a sneeze that seemed to hurt his lungs.

“Flushed,” Bucky said. “Can I—?”

Steve, still too slow by half, blinked in confusion, but then Bucky moved nearer and had the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead before Steve could answer.

“Buck,” Steve complained, but then quieted.

Bucky held his hand against Steve’s forehead for half a minute, the slight coolness of him against the heat of Steve’s skin as soothing as the soft breathing between the two of them.

“Okay,” Bucky said softly and removed his hand. “Seems okay.”

Steve sat still, watching him with somewhat glassy eyes.

“You seem tired,” Bucky observed.

“I keep sleeping,” Steve said. “I feel exhausted.”

“It’s not—” Bucky asked, worried, but Steve shook his head.

“Just a bad cold, I think,” Steve smiled at him tiredly. “Nothing so serious as all that. How long have you been sitting here?”

Bucky shrugged, but Steve knew his old friend better than that. He could see that Bucky also looked a bit tired and the book he was reading was one that Steve had borrowed from circulation and Bucky was nearly a third of the way through it already.

“Ma really called you?”

“No,” Bucky said, with a smile. “The bookkeeping wasn’t busy today and I was restless, so I walked over here to see if you wanted to go for a drink. Then your Ma told me you were driving her out of house and home and there was nothing more she could do for you.”

Steve made a face, which made Bucky laugh.

“I thought I would give her the evening off, since I had no better plans.”

“I can manage myself,” Steve muttered, crossly. Bucky raised an eyebrow and just then, as though conspiring to work against him, his nose burned and Steve sneezed in rapid succession.

“Yes, it seems it,” Bucky said. He got up to get Steve a kerchief, which Steve immediately sneezed into again. “I’m going to get you some soup.”

Steve looked up at Bucky miserably.

“What kind?”

“Whatever kind Florence has made,” Bucky said. “Do you really have a choice in the matter?”

“I’m sick,” Steve whined.

“Yes, and I am here to take care of you, you brat,” Bucky said. He folded his arms. “Would you like soup?”

Steve looked at his friend petulantly and then shivered in the slight cold of the air.

“Yes,” he said, surly.

“Then I will bring you soup and some bread and if you are nice to me, I will even bring some of your favorite tea.”

“I’m always nice,” Steve said, in response.

Bucky heaved an aggrieved sigh and turned on his heels.

“I am!” Steve called to him, as best as he could, as Bucky disappeared through the doorway. Steve, for his part, settled more comfortably into his bed and his pillows. “I am known for it.”

  
In the time it took Bucky to return with the soup and tea, Steve managed to get out of bed and wash up quickly in the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and ran hot water into his hands to splash across his face. He looked pale and worn and just the little activity had him feeling tired and cold again. Still, he took some water and ran it through his hair, attempting to make it look halfway presentable and when that failed, he gave up and crawled back into bed.

By the time Bucky came back, Steve had gotten back beneath the covers, although he had crowded his knees to his chest and was sitting against the backboard, waiting.

“Why are you sitting?” Bucky asked, putting the tray down on the bedside table. “I thought you were too ill to do anything but sleep.”

“I’ve been sleeping for what seems like lifetimes,” Steve said. He sounded more awake now and although he still felt cold and congested and miserable, he could not deny that he was happy to have the company. “I haven’t had anyone to talk to in ages.”

“Your mother told me it’s been three days,” Bucky said. He gestured to the side of the bed and Steve inclined his head to indicate that Bucky should sit next to him.

“As I said, ages,” Steve said.

Bucky gave him an exasperated, wry look and took a seat on the bed so that he was facing him.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“I have felt better,” Steve admitted. “Although I’ve felt worse.”

“Of course you’ve felt worse, you nearly die four times a year,” Bucky admonished.

That made Steve smile, despite everything.

“I have not come close even once this time,” he said. “I am practically healthy. Indestructible, really.”

“And so you are making up for it by being a monster now?”

Steve’s smile widened.

“Remarkable,” Bucky said, with a shake of his head. He sounded more fond than exasperated, although with him it was usually some mixture of the two. He reached for the bowl of soup. “Can you manage or will I have to feed you?”

In truth, Steve could almost certainly feed himself. However, so happy was he to have company and so funny he found it that Bucky was here, acting put upon when no one had forced him to come, that he simply opened his mouth instead.

“Unbelievable!” Bucky exclaimed. “A complete brat!”

That made Steve laugh so much that he started to wheeze, to which Bucky hastily patted his shoulder.

“Oh, fine,” he said. “Since you are clearly on death’s door, I will feed you soup.”

Steve beamed at that. It wasn’t needed, strictly speaking, but he still felt clammy and having Bucky near him brightened up the space enough that Steve felt immediately better, at least mentally. Possibly even emotionally.

“Will you read to me, after?” Steve asked, after he’d swallowed a mouthful. He gathered his blanket around him, wrapping it over his shoulders so that he was nearly cocooned. “What were you reading?”

“A Tale of Two Cities,” Bucky said. He ladled another spoonful of soup into Steve’s mouth. “Charles Dickens.”

“Oh, I hadn’t gotten to that one yet,” Steve said. The soup felt good going down his throat, warm and salty. It warmed him from the inside out and made him realize how hungry he had gotten. He held his hand out for the hunk of bread and Bucky tore it in half for him. “Is it good?”

“Do you know anything of the French Revolution?”

“Only what I was taught in class,” Steve said. He ripped the bread in half and stuffed it in his mouth. “Why, is it interesting?”

“What does go on in that frightful head of yours?” Bucky asked, squinting at him.

Steve grinned and chewed more aggressively.

“I’ll read it to you,” Bucky said. “I’m to a good part anyway. There is a character—Madame Defarge, and she keeps threatening everyone with a pair of knitting needles.”

“I should like a knitting needle,” Steve said, chewing thoughtfully. “Then I would be able to threaten you any time I wish”

“Your very existence is a threat to me,” Bucky said.

“Because it is so very endearing?” Steve said, looking so very sweet.

Bucky rolled his eyes and shoveled another spoonful of soup into Steve’s mouth.

“Because it goes against most laws of nature and likely God Himself,” Bucky said.

Steve laughed at that, just tipped his head back and cackled.

When he re-emerged, Bucky was looking at him the way he often did—a little bit fond, a lot bemused, and as though he had no idea what to do with him. That was well enough, because Steve had enough ideas for them both.

They continued bickering back and forth as they often did, Steve working his way through his bowl of soup, and then convincing Bucky to sit beside him on the bed, against the headboard, as Steve drank his tea and Bucky read from Dickens.

By the time night truly and fully fell, Bucky’s soothing voice was lulling Steve back to sleep and Steve, for his part, felt almost better already. He tipped his head onto Bucky’s shoulder and closed his eyes as Sidney Carton slowly rose to become an unlikely hero. He was asleep, snoring softly in his perch, well before the man went and lost his head.

  
**art:** Bucky reading to a sick Steve while Steve dozes off on his shoulder; **art by:** nalonzooo

*

Bit by bit the weather warmed and with it, so did Steve’s spirits.

His cold receded before the rain did, which made for a few weeks of leaving Brookfield and walking around in the wet streets of Manhattan with an umbrella and invoking his mother’s ire when he returned home with wet shoes. Eventually the rain lessened too and by then what trees could be found on the island were full of small flowers and shoots of tiny green leaves. Central Park slowly came back to life with this, the grass returning to a vibrant green and the birds sharing their space with families and couples once more. When the sun was out and the clouds few, Steve would take his walk through the park and see dozens of people sitting on the grass reading or holding hands by the bridge over the water or simply watching children chase after dogs running happily in the warmth.

It was a time of rejuvenation, the spring bringing renewed spirit to the city. It lifted Steve’s grey spirits as well, the gloom of winter finally sloughing off to an energy he had not felt in months.

By then Steve had told Sam the terrible news, wringing his hat between his hands and apologizing terribly for it. They had been walking through the park themselves, stopping in the middle of the wooden Gapstow bridge to look over the slightly brown water of the Central Park pond.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” he told his friend, feeling heavy with guilt. “I had no idea. She had never indicated—or perhaps she had and it escaped my observation, but, oh, I should have known better. I should have asked after her more before encouraging your affections. I feel awful.”

Sam’s face had grown long and pinched and, what was worse—disappointed.

“Ah,” he said, in a tone so dejected that Steve could not fall over himself quick enough to apologize again.

“If I had known,” Steve said, miserably. “If I had just had one inkling—”

“It’s okay,” Sam said, after a moment. “I know you didn’t mean any harm, Steve.”

That didn’t make him feel any better. Steve leaned against the wood of the bridge, guilt gnawing at his stomach.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t cause any,” he said.

Sam said nothing to that, growing quiet for long enough that Steve nearly offered to marry him himself, just to stop his friend from being cross with him. But then Sam sighed again and bumped his shoulder reassuringly with his friend.

“It’s all right, Steve. Honestly,” he said. “We can’t blame her for loving who she loves. Just because it didn’t work out the way I hoped, well, I can’t begrudge her that. Anyway, I’m happy she was able to tell you.”

“I’m grateful for her trust,” Steve nodded, but he was still fretting. “But still. I should have been more diligent—and now you’re left where you were months ago and—oh, I’m so sorry, Sam. Will you forgive me?”

Steve looked up at him, thinking he would be devastated if they could not somehow find their way back to friendship from this. He had not planned for such a disaster and he’s not certain how he would react to it now. Not well, to be sure.

It seemed he need not worry, though, because Sam was looking at him with kind affection.

“I told you,” Sam said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Maria was a wonderful choice and I liked her quite a lot—we could have been a good match, like you said. But if it were meant to be, then it would have happened.”

“Meant to be,” Steve said aloud. “You really believe in that? The fates?”

Sam shrugged and leaned against the wooden railing. Beneath them, in the water, tiny fish swam under the murky brown, fat ducks floating lazily above them.

“Sometimes,” Sam said, after a minute. “Things feel bigger than we mean for them to. I don’t know if the fates exist or if everyone gets something written for them by it, but for something like this...I can only conclude that it wasn’t meant to be.”

“But you’re disappointed all the same,” Steve said.

“I can’t pretend I’m not,” Sam said. “Every day uncle grows better and—I’m happy for it, of course, but that means I run out of time to find a reason to stay.”

Steve’s stomach twisted terribly as he, too, leaned over the railing. The duck closest to them was asleep, wings ducked into its side. Steve had misinterpreted this situation terribly and because of it, the time they had left was quickly running out.

Sam sighed and straightened.

“If I can be honest with you,” he said and Steve nodded.

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to leave,” Sam said. “The thought of going away to Chicago is miserable to me. To start over again, somewhere else, where I know no one. I’ve already done this twice. I’m older now and it’s not as easy. To do it again is—well, exhausting.”

Sam looked as forlorn as Steve had ever seen him. It was not a look he liked on his friend.

“We will find you someone else,” Steve said, fiercely. “Whether it’s meant to be or not. I won’t let it happen. I will not let you be sent away to _Chicago_.”

Sam gave him a wry smile at that. Because he was a kind and good man, it reached his eyes.

“If anyone can save me from that cold, windy city, I suppose it must be you,” he said and they continued their circuit through the Park.

Steve left with a determination that would have been frightening to anyone who knew him, had they been given a single change to see the look in his eyes.

*

Sam had spoken of it somewhat lightly, but the situation grew more urgent a few weeks later. Colonel Fury was looking better and better and he had not exactly told Sam that he should expect to leave soon, but he had hinted at it—speaking to Sam more about his operations to the West and what a great city Chicago was becoming. Why, just last year they had been awarded the bid to hold the great World’s Fair in honor of Christopher Columbus’s discovery in 1492 and wasn’t that something a young man would look forward to?

“As though one could not travel for the World’s Fair and immediately come back to the greatest city on Earth!” Steve exclaimed, when Sam told him this.

This time they were walking down Fifth Avenue because the day was nice and Steve needed to buy himself a new suit. With the turn in seasons, high society was blossoming once again, which meant that Steve had more calling cards and invitations on his hand than he had new outfits in his closet. There were some suits that had worn thin and others he had tired of, but the real reason was that it was a new year and a new social season and Steve could not show up to the gentlemen’s social club wearing what he had worn the season before.

They ambled slowly down the street, passing small corner stores and haberdasheries, delis and cobblers, not to mention a tailor here and there and one or two department stores, which were beginning to pop up everywhere they looked. Steve’s favorite tailor for bespoke suits was down Fifth Avenue, well past the southern edge of Central Park and closer to midtown. Although his allergies were more aggressive during the warmer weather, Steve ignored what sneezing he did to enjoy the long walk with his friend and anyway he had a few asthma cigarettes in his pocket, if things got too bad.

“Perhaps it won’t be the worst thing,” Sam said, with a frown. “I’ve moved before.”

He did not sound convinced.

In truth, he was looking grimmer and sounding a lot quieter than Steve was used to. His spirits were clearly blue, looking for an answer to his situation and finding none. It made Steve worry and, what’s more, it made his chest ache a bit—to think of his friend in such a precarious position and the thought of losing him was almost more than he could bear.

“But why should you have to?” Steve said, sounding frustrated. “You’ve made a home for yourself here. You have a life. You have companions! Surely your uncle...he must see that.”

“I don’t think that’s enough,” Sam said, sadly. “Uncle brought me here to help him and he won’t need my help much longer. Now he needs someone he trusts to run operations out of Chicago. It’s a good city and the money’s good. It would be a career.”

“Is it the career you _want_?” Steve stopped him with a hand to Sam’s elbow.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Sam told his friend.

“There’s always a choice,” Steve insisted.

That made Sam frown even more.

“That’s not—I don’t know if—” he exhaled in frustration and ran a hand over his head, close cropped as his hair was.

“What?” Steve asked.

Sam shook his head, turning and continuing down the path. Steve watched after him for a minute before running quickly to catch up.

“Sam?” he asked. “Tell me. I won’t be offended.”

“I don’t want to offend you, Steve,” Sam said. “You’re the closest friend I have.”

“You’re dear to me as well,” Steve said. “But if you have something to say, I would like to hear it.”

Sam was silent for a moment, before sighing. His shoulders, high with tension, drained a little, slumping back down.

“I don’t think you understand people outside of your...situation.”

That made no sense to Steve.

“What situation, Sam?”

They passed by a flower store and Steve was tempted to stop them so he could buy an arrangement for his mother, but he did not want to ruin the seriousness of the moment. He kept up with Sam instead, as they passed it by.

“There are two cities here, did you know?”

Steve looked at him questioningly and Sam gave him a tired smile.

“My situation is better than a lot—better than most, even,” he said. “I would never take it for granted. But that doesn’t change the difference—you belong to a New York that most of us don’t belong to.”

Steve frowned. He felt guilty at Sam’s words, although he wasn’t sure why.

“I don’t understand.”

Sam gave him a kind look that almost made Steve feel worse.

“There is a New York for the wealthy and there is a New York for all of the rest. Have you ever been to a tenement, Steve?”

That made Steve uneasy.

“Well, no.”

“There are parts of this city you could never walk through. There are parts no one would ever allow you to, even if you wanted,” Sam said. He nodded his head down Fifth Avenue. “If you kept going and didn’t stop, you would pass that part of the city you’re accustomed to, find yourself in the Lower East Side. An entire party of the city filled with railroad flats and rookeries. You’d take one look at them and flee.”

“I wouldn’t—” Steve started and swallowed. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Sam gave him another kind, but unyielding look.

“You would and no one could blame you for it,” he said. “You want for nothing at Brookfield. We have everything one could want or imagine, living where we do and having what we have at our disposal. But there are people who don’t have that. They live in crowded tenements, one on top of another. The streets are dirty, the space small. It would shock you to see it.”

“How dirty it is?” Steve asked, quietly.

“How poor they are,” Sam said, after a moment.

Steve—he swallowed again. He felt chastened, chagrined, even. There was a tight feeling in his chest he didn’t quite like.

“They work hard,” Sam said, giving Steve a smile. “They do the best they can. They work to the bones on the docks, on the railroads. Cleaning streets. Doing all the labor other people don’t want to do. So it’s not their fault.”

“It’s not my fault either,” Steve said, feeling wrong-footed and defensive.

“I know that,” Sam said. He did not sound mean or judgmental, but it didn’t make Steve feel any better. “Even so.”

They were quiet for a few more blocks, Steve feeling worse and worse, until he did not want to go to the tailor at all anymore.

“What does that have to do with you?” he asked, finally. “You’re not like that.”

Sam said nothing, for some time.

“I’m closer to that than I am to you,” Sam said, eventually.

Steve didn’t like that at all.

“That’s not—” Steve started, but Sam shook his head.

“It’s a good job, Steve,” Sam said. “What uncle is offering me—it would be impossible to say no, unless—”

He stopped, abruptly.

“Unless?” Steve frowned. “Unless, what?”

Still, Sam didn’t say anything.

“Unless what, Sam?” Steve nudged him.

When Sam was still not forthcoming, Steve turned to see what Sam was seeing. Down the street, sitting outside a cafe at a table, was a lovely woman with dark skin and dark hair, pulled back. She was in a blue dress, with a blue hat, and was bent over a notepad, scribbling in it.

“That’s her,” Sam breathed.

  
**art:** Claire Temple, writing outside at a cafe; **art by:** nalonzooo

“What?” Steve blinked. He craned his neck to get a better view. “Who?”

“That’s Claire.”

“The journalist?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said. He sounded nervous, but he was smiling, looking warmer than he had a minute ago. “Should I say hi? I should say hi, right?”

Claire looked perfectly lovely, objectively, but Steve’s eyes narrowed as she continued scribbling. Whatever it was that she was writing, it was probably full of petty gossip or unforgiving judgments cast on people who were just trying to do their best. He felt uneasy immediately; he could not trust her.

She was still a _reporter_ after all, no matter how lovely she appeared in person.

“Sam, no,” Steve said quickly.

Sam frowned.

Suddenly, as though sensing people were watching her, Claire looked up from her notebook. She blinked for a moment, the sun warming her face, and then she herself brightened. They were still too far away to say anything, but it was clear she had recognized Sam. She raised her hand and waved.

“I should apologize,” Sam murmured to Steve. He lifted a hand to wave back at her. “I told her I would call on her for dinner months ago and then—I never did.”

“She’ll understand,” Steve said. He hoped his friend did not follow through and go over to speak with her. He did not know how he would stop him from making such a mistake. “She must know you’ve been busy—and who your uncle is and why you cannot...be so intimate with her. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“We had dinner once a week while in Boston,” Sam said. He sounded a little upset, as though it was distressing him to not call on her now. “I—well, in truth I miss it. She was a good companion, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, soothingly. “I’m sure she was. But you must know that you cannot continue. It is not...suitable.”

“I wonder,” Sam said quietly.

What else he thought—of Steve’s attempts to dissuade him or Claire’s position in society—he did not say.

“All hope is not yet lost,” Steve said. “We will find you someone even your uncle could not take issue with. It is only a matter of looking.”

Claire looked at Sam questioningly and Sam swallowed.

“Come, friend,” Steve said. He took him by the elbow, turning them toward the store to their right, which sold women’s hats. “This hat shop is perfect for Ma. She will be delighted to receive a new one for her birthday.”

Still, Sam lingered for a moment, watching Claire as though he could not bear to not. It was only when Steve applied pressure to his arm and forcibly moved him through the shop’s door did he break eye contact.

They spent a half an hour looking through hats and finding one that Sarah Rogers would be happy to add to her collection.

By the time they left the store, Claire had abandoned the cafe. Steve knew because he saw Sam look and although Sam looked disappointed, he could not help but feel relieved himself.

*

Steve, being social and generally involved among society as he was, never took too seriously to the belief that a man’s social standing was directly indicated by which social club he joined.

Oh he knew the politics of it all and, in fact, knew that his father had been offered an invitation by the esteemed Union Club itself while he was alive. Well, Joseph Rogers had hated the idea of joining a club full of conservative blowhards (his words) who could not embrace progress nor change. Joseph had joined the Union League Club instead and although Steve had a standing invitation to the prestigious and civic-minded organization, when it came time to accept admittance to one, he had wanted to choose for himself.

The Union League Club had tempted him, in truth, but he was not a person who liked to be known only for his father’s accomplishments or because of his connections to other higher houses in New York society. So when Colonel Fury had mentioned the Shield Club to Tony and Tony had extended an invitation to Steve, Steve had sat down with their charter and a list of their members, and decided it was the one for him. He helped the Club’s philanthropic goals and attended his fair share of dinners and banquets, with the caveat that he could bring who he chose when the feeling suited him. Well, Shield was not snobby like some of the others, so he was happily allowed, meaning he had brought both Sam and Bucky to more than a few events and Peggy too, when she was still living with them.

In the middle of March, Tony invited the Club’s members to a magician’s night. This was received with no little enthusiasm and Steve spent days in a state of ill-disguised excitement, genuinely looking forward to whoever Tony had managed to find.

It was leading up to this event that Clint, of all people, ran into him just as he was about to enter his favorite baker’s shop.

“Steve!” he heard, interrupting a mental list he had been preparing of what kinds of breads and cakes to bring back home as a treat.

“Clint?” Steve turned immediately. Clint Barton was much more Bucky’s close friend than Steve’s, but it was unavoidable to run into him on occasion, given their circles overlapped and Manhattan often felt even smaller than it was. “What are you doing out in the middle of the day?”

“Oh, it’s my rare day off,” his friend said. “The boss’s son returned from Europe and gave half of the company the day out of good spirits.”

Steve did not know _that_ much about business, but that did not sound like standard practice to him.

“He’s been gone for some months, right?” he asked.

“Half the year, practically,” Clint said. “I think he would have stayed abroad longer, but rumor has it that the boss is ill, or maybe he’s just getting too old to run the whole company by himself. Whatever it is, it was enough to call Thor back.”

Clint, Steve was aware, worked bookkeeping for a shipping firm, although which one, Steve would be hard pressed to say. He knew that Clint did not come from wealth, nor would he, likely, ever accrue it, but the man had made fast friends with Bucky at some point and Steve had to admit, he made a funny and genial addition to their company when they joined together. Well, when he and Natasha weren’t at one another’s throats, anyway.

Clint had talked about his company and his boss and even the boss’s son on occasion and Steve was almost certain he had talked about all three in good terms, but, Steve was embarrassed to admit, he had retained almost none of the information.

“That’s my good fortune, then,” Steve said, with a smile. “That he took such leave of his senses, we could run into one another like this. How has everything been? I was about to spoil myself with some cakes, would you like to join?”

“Thank you. There’s nothing I like better than cake and coffee,” Clint said, grinning. Steve opened the door and Clint went first, Steve following thereafter.

  
**art:** Clint, being interminably good-natured outside of the bakery; **art by:** nalonzooo

“You’re not usually in this part of town, are you?” Steve asked.

The two of them stood behind two others who were talking to the baker, an old German man named Otto, who had opened the bakery with his wife ten years ago. Steve had discovered the bakery with Natasha a handful of years ago by accident. One bite of the rich German chocolate cake and he had never gone to another. He believed in loyalty above all things, but especially when it came to sugar.

“No, Bucky asked me to pick up an invitation for him from Stark,” Clint said. “He won’t be down this way until the party, I think, but you know how Stark is—”

Steve knew only too well.

“How long did he keep you?” he asked wryly.

Clint coughed a little, politely, and looked at a round loaf of bread.

“It was morning when I arrived to pick it up,” he said.

That made Steve groan at the same time it made him laugh. Dealing with Tony Stark was, as ever, an unmitigated nightmare. Even when the man had something nice to be doing, he did it in the most long-winded and exhausting way possible. In a way, it was almost impressive, or it would be if it did not usually take half the day.

“What could he possibly have had to say?” Steve asked aloud. He leaned closer to a display of sticky, gleaming honey buns and dark, dense coffee cakes.

“He mentioned the party, of course,” Clint said, hedging.

“He can’t have given you too many details,” Steve said. He inhaled deeply, letting the sugar settle into his blood. “Tony loves to surprise in the grandest manner possible. It is his greatest delight in life—beyond talking.”

“Well no,” Clint grinned. He eyed a tray of thin-cut cookies: ginger, lemon, spice, apple, maple, and cranberry-orange according to the neat postcard sign in front. “Apparently, his ward has come to New York at last.”

Steve, nose nearly smashed into the display of assorted pies—apple and blueberry and cherry and key lime—inhaled sharply, immediately turning.

“What?”

“His ward,” Clint blink. “L...oki, I think. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

“How could I have not?” Steve muttered under his breath. For Clint, louder, he puzzled, “He’s here? From Ithaca?”

“Yes,” Clint said. “According to Tony. Or, at least I hope so. He spent the better part of a half an hour telling me about him and how good it was to finally have him in the city and how accomplished he was besides, but, if truth be told, I stopped listening after the first five minutes or so.”

Steve felt a sharp stab of irritation. Not at Clint, who had done nothing wrong and had, actually, suffered more than any of them this day, but because, if true, then—

“Will he be there?” Steve asked sharply. “Loki. To the magician’s party.”

Clint frowned slightly, although it was not for being displeased at Steve. He just looked as though he were thinking.

“I think so,” he said, slowly. “Yes...I’m sure that’s what Tony said. At some point, during the whole—”

He waved vaguely and Steve understood what he meant, of course. Most long interactions with Tony could be described with such a vague hand gesture.

“So,” Steve said. He could not help how tight his voice sounded nor, indeed, how little he suddenly was craving anything in the shop. “We will finally meet this Loki at last.”

“I suppose so,” Clint agreed. Clint did not seem particularly bothered by it. The two customers left and Otto turned his attention toward the two of them.

“Mr. Rogers,” he said brightly, in his thick German accent. “Can I help you today?”

It took Steve a minute longer than he would ever be proud of admitting, to swallow the irritation rankling his stomach. What was to be a fun, happy event was now going to be—well, less so. Perhaps that was unkind of him. He had never _met_ Loki. It was possible he was just as lovely and kind as Tony had mentioned. It was just that Tony had mentioned him _so much_ and he could never seem to do any wrong or help but being accomplished at any manner of task that he set out to do.

It was all so, very—

“Steve?” Clint said, nudging him. The other man frowned slightly, blinking at him some more. To be fair, that was not unusual for him.

Steve schooled his expression into one of neutrality as best as he could and, with some effort, diverted his attention from his whirling thoughts to the one at hand.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Becker,” he said. “I was wondering if I could not have a baguette, one load of rosemary sourdough, and one of your bee sting cakes.”

This was not ideal, but, he supposed, it had to happen eventually. Soon, Steve would meet this Loki Laufeyson and be able to judge for himself just how accomplished and worldly and wonderful he was.

He was already dreading it terribly.

*


	7. VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Magician’s Night was likely against the more proper bylaws of a gentleman’s club, but, well, the point was no one was going to tell Tony _no_.

**PART VII.**

The Shield Club met at the corner of Madison Avenue and 66th street, just a few blocks and an avenue from the Union Club itself. Fury had often boasted that it was a club of more preeminence than the latter because it was closer to the park, although no club, in that case, was quite so prestigious as the Knickerbocker Club, which had a corner view of Central Park from Fifth Avenue. Fury hated the Knickerbocker Club on principle, for being sexist and much too elitist for Shield’s taste, but Colonel Fury’s good favor did not particularly matter one way or another as far as society was concerned. The two clubs enjoyed a healthy rivalry, as far as such things went, meaning both clubs were always fit to impress.

This was particularly true now, during the spring season, when society was coming alive again with exclusive invitations and parties and recruiting from new and distinguished society to fortify their ranks. Howard Stark had been one of the founding members of the Shield Club, which meant that Tony was able to lean heavily on the Club’s board and plan his own private parties—even those that would not usually pass muster at Shield.

That was not to say that high society did not enjoy a magician or two, but such middle brow entertainment was usually better held at someone’s estate. But, well, Tony liked the Club’s bar better than the one at home and he could never say no to doing something with flair when the alternative was to not.

The Magician’s Night was likely against the more proper bylaws of a gentleman’s club, but, well, the point was no one was going to tell Tony _no_.

On the day of the party, the Club members arrived dressed to impress in their finest, newest spring jackets and bowties. Steve himself wore a jacket that was a dark blue in color and of lighter material than the ones he wore through December and January. He arrived to Shield Club with Sam, at his personal invitation, and Colonel Fury himself. They were joined shortly thereafter by Bucky and Clint and then Natasha, who stood out in a blue gown with puffed sleeves and a green and black peacock stitched carefully into the back of the skirt. Her red hair was pinned back and up into a bun, curls resting against the material of her high neck. She wore no hat today, which made her stand out moreso, even if, by some miracle, someone managed to miss that she was the only woman there by a long shot.

“Do gentlemen’s clubs…” Sam asked quietly to Steve.

“No,” Steve said, amused. “But who among us will be the first to tell Natasha that?”

That made Sam grin a little, crookedly, which looked good against the new black and white jacket Colonel Fury had gifted him for the occasion.

“How did that happen?”

“I believe,” Steve said, with a little grin himself. “She just showed up one day and everyone was so confused about the whole affair that no one thought to tell her no then and it’s been so long that no one can quite work up the nerve to do it now.”

“She has to know,” Sam murmured, watching her.

Natasha rarely did not know the effect she had on everyone—men and women alike. She liked it that way, Steve knew. Men commanded rooms in certain respects and Natasha Romanoff commanded the room in another. It was her power and she wielded it brutally and effectively and far be it for Steve to ever begrudge her that.

“She knows,” Steve said, shaking his head. He felt a close fondness toward his good friend that she had long since earned.

  
**art:** Natasha in her puffed sleeve dress with a peacock embroidered down the back; **art by:** nalonzooo

Almost as though she had heard, Natasha turned where she stood, halfway in the entrance and halfway out. The sun caught her vision and she shielded her eyes to see better.

A few feet from her, Bucky and Clint paused, watching her, mystified.

Next to Steve, Sam took a deep breath. To Steve, it did not sound steady. To him, it sounded a little awestruck.

  
The inside of Shield Club was luxurious in a way that was closer to comfort than to the rigid, ostentatiousness of some of the other social clubs in Manhattan. There were chandeliers and crystals and new electric lights, of course, but the walls were made of bookshelves, filled with all sorts of stories and tomes, and the colors of the rooms were all warm and bright—deep reds and yellows and purples and the rich brown of mahogany paneling. There were round tables, set with crystals and china in the dining area, and comfortable, leather armchairs and couches in what was effectively the parlor. This space in particular was loud and warm, with a grand piano sat in the corner of the room and large glass windows overlooking the street. The parlor was framed in with red, velvet curtains drawn back by thick, golden-trimmed ropes.

“So this is how the other half live,” Sam said with a low whistle.

Steve looked around the Club with half-interest, trying to see it through Sam’s eyes.

“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” he said. Honestly, he had been to the Club so many times he barely noticed its amenities anymore. Still, he did like the books. And he especially liked the—“Here. The best part.”

He grabbed two glasses of mixed cocktails from the nearest staff, one for him and one for Sam.

“It’s barely the afternoon,” Sam said, taking his.

“ _This_ is how the other half live,” Steve said, with a grin. He took a mouthful. “Half drunk at all times.”

Sam laughed at that and shook his head, a little ruefully. Still, it did not stop him from taking a mouthful himself.

“To the other half,” Sam said, offering his glass.

“I will cheers to that,” Steve said, and clinked their glasses together.

  
The afternoon, like most afternoons at the Club, was light in entertainment and heavy in social revelry and drink. Tony’s magician, a man who was called the Doctor of Strange, was to perform for the audience in the evening, which left much of the afternoon for eating, socializing, and spreading a winter’s worth of gossip over a healthy number of flutes and goblets and coupe glasses that were never given the chance to stay empty.

Steve was only able to escape Tony’s gravitational pull for long enough to help himself to some sort of sweetbread pâté. Unfortunately, the collision was inevitable and out of his control, so to speak, because as he was chatting with Sam and Clint by the table of hors d'oeuvres, a shadow fell across the three of them.

“Rogers!” Tony’s familiar voice called and a large hand clasped at Steve’s shoulder, wheeling him around until he was faced with the older man’s familiar salt and pepper beard and slightly manic eyes. “Every time I come toward you, you seem to be in another corner, talking to someone else. Have you been avoiding me?”

“Who, me?” Steve said, innocently nibbling on his sweetbread.

“I’ve had all of the pâté, it’s not nearly that interesting,” Tony said, suspiciously. Steve did not let this dissuade him from stuffing the rest into his face, with as much charm as he could muster. Next to him, Sam coughed politely into a napkin. “Nevermind that, have you had the pleasure?”

Steve had not. To be clear, Steve knew exactly what Tony was suggesting and he had been attempting to avoid it—along with Tony himself—for much of the afternoon. Still, he played the innocent.

“The pleasure of what, Tony?” he asked.

“Loki!” Tony said loudly, even excitedly. “He’s here—did no one tell you? Have you not seen him? Loki, you remember—our ward.”

“Yes, of course,” Steve said. “How could I have forgotten?”

Tony did not seem to catch or notice or care about the slight note of exasperation in Steve’s tone.

“He’s around here somewhere,” Tony said. “He’s a little shy—he’s very humble, you see—but he’s come to Manhattan at last. Did I tell you? Oh, I think I must have forgotten. He finished his studies at Cornell and came top of his class—with distinctions! He has offers to continue his education at Harvard or Yale if he chooses. We’re open to discussing both, of course, although we will have to give a thorough vetting to—oh where is that boy?”

Steve’s smile had taken on a slightly brittle, perhaps borderline manic quality. He sighed internally, dreading and resigned to a meeting that he had spent the better part of three years grateful to know there was little likeliness of occurring. Well that was all wasted and now here he was, mouth full of sweetbread while Tony Stark pulled over a young, bemused looking man who was within a year or two of Steve’s age.

Steve tried not to stare.

In truth, Tony had spent so many years speaking of Loki’s immense and endless accolades that Steve _had_ found himself curious about the young man—what he looked like, what he spoke like, what he was like at all. Tony had a propensity for overspeaking and embellishing, but in Loki, apparently, he had not overstated himself too much. The young man had dark hair that was curling just past his ears and onto the nape of his neck. He was thin and very fair, with bright green eyes that Steve felt immediately were studying him—not rudely or even in a calculating manner, but with an open inquisitiveness that could not be hidden.

Steve tried to hide his terrible thoughts, swallow past jealousies and offer him a kind smile so he had nothing further to scrutinize.

“You must be Loki,” he said, politely.

  
**art:** Loki Laufeyson; **art by:** nalonzooo

“Yes,” the young man said. Loki’s voice was quiet, although it was not soft. He looked at Steve curiously and Steve felt his smile grow a bit tense. “You’re Steve Rogers. Unless I am mistaken.”

“You’re not,” Steve said. He felt himself straighten in response and that irritated him too—that whatever unspoken quality of Loki’s commended himself to Tony, also apparently commended himself to Steve.

Steve did not like feeling as though he wanted to prove himself to someone so new and the very feeling sent a spike of irritation through the pit of his stomach.

“A pleasure to meet you at last,” Loki said, with a light smile. “Mr. Stark has spoken a lot of you.”

Steve raised an eyebrow and suddenly Tony was spluttering, looking very interestedly at a carafe of coffee that he insisted must be poured immediately.

“Tony—” Steve just barely cut himself off from saying _talks a lot_. “—is too kind. Assuming what he said was positive in nature, of course.”

“Oh, certainly,” Loki said.

Steve’s smile would take on a life of its own if he did not pay close mind to it. Perhaps not in a good way.

“We’ve likewise heard a lot about you. You’ve been up in Ithaca studying, from what I understand?”

Loki’s expression didn’t change, but Steve was pleased to see something like an embarrassed flush color his cheeks.

“Mostly, yes,” he said. “I’ve spent some time in Maine as well. Portland, near the water.”

“Oh? What were you doing there?” Steve asked.

“Portland?” Clint, who had been paying attention to other conversation suddenly turned, his mouth full of some pastry. Steve frowned. “Our company has business up there! Odinson Shipping. I think Mr. Odinson’s son was in Portland for some time tending to the—” He gestured vaguely here. “—trade. Did you meet him? Thor Odinson.”

Loki paused.

“No,” he said, slowly.

“Really?” Clint puzzled out loud. “Big fellow, very tall, very blond. Some sort of dreamy blue eyes and a voice that commands any space he occupies. He’s pretty hard to miss and well, being the most prominent son of a shipping magnate—Well, I guess I don’t really know how large Portland is.”

Loki’s lips thinned into a slight line and then he amended himself. “Ah. I misspoke. I did hear of him. The shipping industry is large in Portland—but I never ran into him myself.”

“Oh,” Clint said, expression clearing. “Well, he’s back here now, so your timing is lucky! You’re sure to cross paths sooner or later. I can help re-introduce you, if you’d like.”

“Really?” Steve, now more interested, turned toward his friend. “Thor Odinson is to be attending society events?”

All Steve really knew about Thor Odinson was that he was the son of one of the largest shipping capitalists in the country, that he had had quite the colorful youth, and that as a child he had been sent to live with his mother elsewhere, as the city did not agree with her. He had been brought into the family business a handful of years ago and was Odin’s heir apparent and liaison to ports around the country, but he had not grown up or otherwise been present in New York society and therefore Steve had never met him properly. Thor was said to be charming and handsome and exceptionally gregarious. Steve was curious, to say the least.

“I would assume so,” Clint said. He reached for another pastry, this time one with some jam in the center. “His father is beyond society, but Mr. Odinson is young and sociable and I think it’s only a matter of time before we see him.”

“It would be nice to have some fresh blood around here,” Steve said, pleased. That made some of the irritation and confusion of meeting Loki ebb slightly.

“Excuse me,” Loki said, to that end. His voice was polite, although his expression was slightly drawn. “I believe Mr. Stark is calling me.”

Sure enough, Tony, who had wandered away, was vigorously waving Loki over to another group of people, which included Colonel Fury, Mr. Phillip Coulson, and three other gentlemen who Steve usually cared to avoid if it could be at all helped. If Steve knew or liked the young man better he would attempt to intervene, but as it was, he was busy drinking a fresh cocktail a server had brought him.

“Take care!” Clint said pleasantly after him, with a wave.

Steve watched Loki go, trying to decide how he felt about their interaction. It had been neither pleasant nor unpleasant, at least not in the way that he had been anticipating. It just, well— _was_.

In the end, he didn’t have to decide one way or another, because Bucky nodded to him from the other end of the room and together, he and Clint joined Bucky, Sam, and—to Clint’s horror—Natasha for a delightful interlude of drinking, gossiping, and watching Natasha try to restrain herself from strangling Bucky’s bemused friend.

  
Near the early evening everyone was getting restless and bored, which meant some entertainment was called for. No one seemed to have a single talent between them and Natasha refused to sing, which left Steve unfortunately open to calls from Clint and Bucky to attempt to play the piano for the crowd. To be sure, Steve _had_ learned piano at some point, but also to be clear, he had stopped attending lessons the moment he realized they bored him and, furthermore, that he could get away with it.

“I can really only play simple pieces,” Steve said, laughing, as he was ushered onto the stool. He looked at the ivory and black keys in front of them and pressed his fingers down.

Luckily, everyone was well enough into drink at that point that the room was warm and good-natured as Steve played two simple pieces. He enjoyed the way that his hands swept over the keys—not too fast, but not too slow either. There was something to be said about muscle memory and if he remembered to tell his mother about this, she would be thrilled, given she had continued paying his piano instructor three full months before Steve admitted to her that he had quit.

The music was light and happy and raised Steve’s spirits as well, so as a result, he was smiling with genuine pleasure when he finished. He stood as the room applauded him—politely and, in parts, enthusiastically—and he took a deep bow, laughing as he stood.

He slipped into the audience again, finding a space next to Bucky.

“I thought you quit the piano,” Bucky leaned over and whispered to him.

“If they had asked for one more song, I would have had no choice but to play _for he’s a jolly good fellow_ ,” Steve laughed, flushed and nearly giddy from the attention.

“Really?” Bucky said, expression torn between exasperation and amusement. “You took lessons for _years_!”

“I do not know how to tell you that I cannot recall a single thing that I don’t want to,” Steve said and, to his delight, Bucky groaned. He was happy to cause his old friend such strife—this, surely, was the meaning of friendship.

Bucky opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted midway through by the sound of Tony’s loud chattering. Steve’s attention was only drawn back to the front when he realized that someone else had taken place at the piano now.

“—very accomplished,” Tony was saying, gesturing widely, excitedly. “We helped foster that talent, of course, but it took very little urging on our part. It was as though he was born to play. I would not be surprised if he was a prodigy in his own right, actually, is there a test for that?—I’ll have to make a note to look into what qualifications are needed to declare one a prodigy—”

Someone from the audience—Rhodey, Steve thought—coughed loudly.

“Oh, right! So, please, request any song you would like or—oh, you can make up something new for us as you sit, can’t you?”

Loki, face still calm, as though wearing a very careful mask, nodded.

“Good lord,” Steve muttered to himself.

Bucky looked at him curiously, but Loki then began to play _Greensleeves_ , of all things, and that delighted everyone so thoroughly that Bucky was immediately distracted.

It was apparent at once, that in this too, Tony had not exaggerated. Loki played with confident ease and, what was more, with a quiet diligence and earnestness that even Steve could not deny. For Steve, playing the piano had been little more than a chore; a favor for his mother and something to add to his list of talents and accomplishments. With Loki, it was clear that this was a natural talent for him; a passion, or even, something joyous. It made his playing remarkable, emotional.

Well, being able to admit to someone’s talent did not mean he could not _resent_ him for it at the same time.

By the end of his second song, Bucky had drifted from Steve’s side and had, somehow, been convinced to accompany Loki with light singing. Bucky’s voice was as soothing to listen to as Loki’s playing, and the smile the two exchanged made them appear a good match. The members of the Club loved that immensely, which did nothing to quell Steve’s bad temper.

“Drink?” Natasha offered, near him. She leaned against the wall near him, a glass of her own and one she plucked from the nearest waiter.

“Yes. Please.” Steve said, through grit teeth.

Being as good a friend as she was, Natasha did not comment on his sour mood, or on how quickly Steve threw back the champagne. This was for the best because throwing back champagne was certainly not one of Steve’s better ideas and after he had coughed lightly through the burn, it left his head feeling a bit fuzzy.

“Say,” Steve said. “I have a question for you.”

“That is rarely a good sign,” Natasha said. Her mouth quirked up at one corner and she nodded at the front of the room while addressing Steve. “But go on, I suppose.”

“I was approached by a...friend,” Steve said carefully. “To inquire.”

“Uh huh,” Natasha said.

“As to your...prospects,” Steve said.

Natasha snorted.

“Now you sound like an old society broad.”

Steve ignored this and nudged her shoulder lightly.

“It is a good friend,” he said. “Who is taken with you, although I could not say why.”

Natasha smiled.

“I would highly recommend them,” Steve said, a little more earnestly. “They are...kind and funny and I think you would make a smart pair.”

“A smart pair,” Natasha murmured. She watched Bucky and Loki for a minute before chuckling. “Are you attempting to match me the way you matched Peggy and Angie?”

Steve looked dubious.

“You are being secretive,” Natasha said, a red eyebrow carefully raised. “You will not even use a proper pronoun.”

Steve’s look of dubiousness increased.

“I will suggest to Ms. Hill to use a better messenger next time,” Natasha said.

Steve was not drinking, but he spluttered anyway, flushing pink. Two people in the back row turned to glare at him for the disruption.

“I didn’t say—why would you think—”

Natasha actually _giggled_ at that. Giggled! At Steve’s distress!

“Luckily for her, Ms. Hill’s courage far exceeds your own.”

Steve ignored this slight and pressed on with some excitement.

“She talked to you!”

“Yes,” Natasha said. “We spoke.”

“And?” Steve asked. “Well?”

Natasha said nothing, smiling into her drink.

“Natasha!”

For a moment Steve thought she was truly not going to say anything to him and he would have to combust on the spot from curiosity. But then her demeanor changed and she shook her head slightly.

“I told her I could not have been more flattered nor grateful for the attention,” she said. “But.”

Steve waited, but she did not expand.

“But?”

Still, she said nothing.

“Natasha,” Steve said. He touched her shoulder. “ _Natasha_.”

“I could not return her affection,” Natasha said, softly. “Although I wish I could have. I think...she understood.”

Steve looked at her questioningly, but Natasha simply leaned into her friend comfortingly and without word. Perhaps it was not Steve’s place to ask more.

Instead, he leaned back against her, watching the proceedings with open bemusement, and when Loki and Bucky finished their current duet together, she put a gloved hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Come,” she said. “I think your friend needs your help.”

  
“I don’t know about that,” Sam said, dubiously. He was in the next room, leaning against a bookshelf while Clint gestured widely at him.

“I’m almost positive,” Clint said, his voice excitable. “I mean, it is undoubted that the government is hiding _something_. And Boss Tweed—”

“You cannot be talking about Boss Tweed again,” Natasha said, dryly.

Clint and Sam paused mid-conversation to greet the newcomers. Clint frowned, chewing on his bottom lip, as though he was contemplating what to say, then apparently decided to speak anyway.

“It’s not so far-fetched as all that!” he said. “If you think about how powerful he was—”

“What about Boss Tweed?” Steve asked. He was well on his way to being at least tipsy, which meant that he was more willing to indulge Natasha and Clint’s animosity instead of steering the topic to safer shores.

“I think—”

“Clint is a believer in conspiracies,” Natasha said, taking a drink of her cocktail.

“It is not a _conspiracy_ , Natasha,” Clint said in frustration, to which Natasha raised an eyebrow. He coughed. “—Miss Romanoff.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“And what _is_ the theory?” he asked. “In question?”

“They’ve found things,” Clint said eagerly, leaning toward Steve. “The ships go out to sea, sometimes they reach their destination in time with their cargo, other times they’re detoured or they end up somewhere else entirely and the cargo is half gone and no one can seem to remember a thing and the captain’s gone a little… _strange._ ”

Steve raised an eyebrow. Natasha let out a derisive sound and drank some more.

“I mean you’ve heard of the _Mary Celeste_ , surely,” Clint continued. “What other explanation could there _be_?”

“Say you’re right,” Sam said, which surprised Steve. Sam wasn’t usually the type to indulge people in their...clear delusions. He was a more solid sort than that. “And there are—unexplained phenomena out there.”

Clint nodded eagerly.

“Why would Boss Tweed be in charge of hiding that? I’m sorry, I don’t see the connection.”

“It’s like,” Clint said, in frustration. He exhaled and swept a hand across his forehead, shoving aside his bangs. “Okay, for example, let us speak freely of the Freemasons.”

“Oh brother,” Natasha said. “I can’t listen to this any longer. Mr. Wilson, tell me you have some sense to add to this conversation.”

“Please,” Sam said genially. “Call me Sam.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“Sam,” she said. “Call me Natasha.”

“Hey!” Clint protested.

“You have not earned that right,” Natasha said to him. “You have barely earned my presence.”

Clint did not sulk as readily as Steve would have, but he did frown so deeply that Steve thought he might hurt himself if he wasn’t careful.

“You’re not a conspiracy theorist yourself?” Sam asked Natasha. She turned toward him, her glass to her mouth again.

“I believe what I can see and feel for myself,” she said. “So if Boss Tweed would like to rise from his grave and personally tell us that he was responsible for disappearing the crewmembers of the _Mary Celeste_ , then maybe I would consider wasting my energy following Barton’s train of thought.”

“ _The Freemasons_ —” Clint spluttered and Natasha smirked.

Natasha leaned against the bookshelf, closer to Sam, and Sam’s eyes tracked her with interest. She smiled broadly and leaned forward to whisper something to him. Clint crossed his arms over his chest, but that only made Natasha smile more. She said something that made Sam laugh and that sound caught Steve’s attention.

Another server went past with a tray of sliced baguette topped with a variety of creams and jams. Steve ushered him over and selected a slice with bitter marmalade—which was his secret favorite—and a napkin as he considered what had just occurred to him.

The fact was that Sam was handsome and intelligent, kind, and wickedly funny. Natasha was equally handsome, dry in humor, and as loyal a friend as Steve had ever had. She enjoyed intelligent conversation—which Sam offered plenty—and most importantly, she came from some foreign wealth she never cared to disclose and would never _willingly_ leave New York City. If she would not have Maria, then perhaps...

The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. This was the most obvious match all along!

It certainly did not hurt that the two of them seemed to enjoy one another’s company quite a bit. Their banter was quick and natural, the wit between the two of them evenly matched. When Sam said something, Natasha looked pleased and thoughtful. When she returned a reply, Sam laughed, his whole face brightening with delight. There was a chemistry here, it was undeniable.

“Oh stop,” Sam said, grinning. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

Natasha gave Sam one of her mischievous looks and put a hand on Sam’s arm. Steve’s own heart beat quickly at that, the excitement nearly overtaking him.

“Would you care to refresh our drinks?” she asked. “I am desperate for some wine. I need more before I can finish my story.”

Sam grinned more broadly at that.

“Well then, I guess I have no choice,” he said. “I won’t be able to sleep tonight without knowing what happens when you find a head in your garden.”

The two of them asked Steve and Clint to excuse them, speaking closely as they strolled to the next room.

Steve was deep in thought and plan when Clint finally turned to him. Strangely, he looked less light than before, his expression cloudier than Steve had ever seen it.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Clint took a breath and gave Steve a tight, almost sad smile.

“Perfectly,” he said. “Excuse me, I need to use the men’s room.”

Puzzled, Steve watched Clint go too. He wasn’t at all sure what that was all about, but all too soon, he was distracted by his own thoughts. The music finally ended next door and he made sure that he had stopped hearing Tony’s excitable voice before he wiped his fingers on the napkin and made his way back to the entertaining room.

*

They did make it to the event, eventually.

The Doctor of Strange proved to be a spectacular show. He was an older man with dark salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly groomed beard that made him look almost so similar to Tony that everyone spent multiple minutes whispering behind their hands about it. Soon though, the Magician began his act, using card tricks, levitation, all sorts of illusions, and even hypnotism to draw the crowd into the closest thing to frenzy that gentlemen allowed. The energy in the room, already high from drinking all through the afternoon, reached a peak when the Doctor disappeared Tony although, to Steve’s somewhat disappointment, he eventually made him reappear.

“You should have kept him!” Rhodey had said loudly through the applause, to which many snickered and Tony looked affronted.

The Doctor took a bow after an hour’s worth of entertainment, which left the gentlemen—and Natasha—in exceptionally high spirits. After, when everyone was finally grabbing hats and scarves to make the walk and take cars home, it was agreed that Tony had—shockingly, and for all of his long-winded commentary—hosted nothing sort of a wonderful party.

It had been a most wonderful and exhausting day.

“I’m so tired, I might fall asleep right here,” Steve said, with a wide yawn. He was waiting for Sam and the Colonel to collect their coats before they would head back uptown together. In the meantime, Bucky had his hat on and was looking tired himself. “Are you going to go all the way back to Mt. Vernon?”

“I don’t suppose I have much of a choice,” Bucky said, with a shrug. “It’s not so late.”

Steve yawned again and leaned against his friend.

“It is late enough,” he said. “I feel as though we have been here all day.”

“We have been here all day,” Bucky murmured.

“You know what I mean,” Steve bickered, although with a lazier energy than usual. “I could fall asleep standing up.”

“You said,” Bucky replied. Then, with some hesitation, he put an arm around Steve’s back. “Do not do that.”

“But you are holding me up,” Steve said. He smiled sleepily.

“That is not my _job_ ,” his friend scolded, but the effect was worn thin due to the spring evening air and how comfortable Steve felt tucked into Bucky’s side.

“Tell you what,” Steve said. “You hold me up and you can sleep in your usual quarters.”

Bucky looked at Steve dubiously.

“Please don’t argue with me,” Steve said, ignoring that. “It is much too late and I have had much too much to drink and I think if we begin arguing, I will collapse from exhaustion.”

“You are so much,” Bucky said. “Much too much.”

Steve did not know what that meant, really, but he saw Sam and the Colonel emerge at the same time the look on Bucky’s face changed from wariness to inevitable resignation.

That reminded him—

“Say,” he said, quietly. “What do you think about Sam and Natasha?”

Bucky groaned next to him.

“Tell me you aren’t doing this yet again,” he said. “Did you not learn your lesson the first time?”

Steve ignored him.

“That all turned out fine,” he said, flapping his hand. “Well, mostly. Anyway, I watched them earlier and it is completely obvious to me that Natasha has some sort of affection for Sam.”

“Obvious,” Bucky said, deadpan. “To you.”

“Yes, that is what I said,” Steve said. “She could not keep her eyes off of him. And it’s a smart match, if you think about it. Natasha has never been the very affectionate sort, she needs someone solid, someone with a good head on his shoulders, and Sam—”

“Sam already _has_ someone he fancies, Steve,” Bucky said, reminding him.

Again, Steve ignored him, as was his right.

“—and _Sam_ is the most solid sort of fellow. A hard worker, very realist. He doesn’t have his head in the clouds, as the saying goes—”

“Wish you would follow suit,” Bucky muttered and Steve elbowed him in the side for his trouble. “Hey!”

“And sure Sam doesn’t come from wealth _per se_ , but his uncle is Colonel Fury and Fury has always had some sort of affection for her.” The more Steve rationalized this, the clearer it became and the more excited he grew. He was quite taken with this idea, actually.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky said in exasperation. “Don’t do this again. Please, let Sam decide for himself who—”

“And Natasha is—well no one knows, she could as well be Russian aristocracy, as a member of the actual Romanoff family—” that made Steve pause, looking thoughtful. “Do you think she is? That would explain—”

“Nothing,” Bucky said. “That would explain nothing.”

Steve gave him a disgruntled look.

“Anyway, I think this is a genius idea, actually,” he said, cheerfully. “And I think they genuinely have feelings for one another. You should have seen them earlier. She touched his shoulder!”

“I give up,” Bucky said, loudly. “I give! Up!”

That pleased Steve greatly.

“Delightful!” he exclaimed, claiming his victory. Then, immediately distracted, “Hey—say, is that Maria?”

  
**art:** Steve and Bucky catching sight of Maria Hill in a suit; **art by:** nalonzooo

Bucky looked over at someone in a suit drawing themselves into a car. The person was Maria’s height and had Maria’s face, although their hair was pulled back and there was no mistaking that they were in men’s clothing.

“I think so,” Bucky said, looking as well.

“Curious,” Steve said. “I didn’t even know she was here.”

“I don’t think we were looking for her properly,” Bucky said, amused.

“She looks good,” Steve said and could not keep the note of pride out of his voice.

“I agree. She looks happier now that you’ve stopped meddling in her affairs,” Bucky said, low and into Steve’s ears.

Steve swatted him away with irritation. Maria stepped up into her horse-drawn streetcar, disappearing inside.

That reminded Steve—

He looked around for Natasha, craning his neck to see where his friend had gone. But look though he would, she was nowhere to be found.

“Sorry about that,” Sam said, finally appearing with his coat and hat. “Uncle had a lot to say about magic, apparently.”

“Did he like it?” Bucky asked.

“You know,” Sam said, putting his hat on. “His glare was only sort of a grimace the entire night, so maybe he did.”

“Oh good,” Steve said, absently patting Sam on the shoulder. “Perhaps that can be your new career.”

He gave up looking around for Natasha as Colonel Fury joined them, having called the car.

Oh well, Steve thought, as he walked—still tucked against Bucky—toward their own carriage. Now that he had a solid plan and idea, there was plenty of time. He would work on _those_ machinations tomorrow.

*


	8. VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That is exactly what we will do then, Steve,” he said and his thrill was catching—it filled Steve from head to toe the way champagne did, making him feel fizzy all over. “We’ll have a dance this spring. A loud, joyous affair with too much drink and just enough dance. We will go until the sun rises again and then we’ll sleep in our fine clothes in the park and pick up bottles and begin all over again. It will be an event to remember—the talk of society!” 
> 
> Steve closed his eyes for a moment, a grin spilled across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new mischief maker appears! ;)

**PART VIII.**

The coming week was nothing short of beautiful, sunny weather. The air was warm and humid around the city and its inhabitants only too happy to leave the inside of their homes for balmy, bright spring days. When it was warm and dry like this, a gentle breeze moving pockets of humid air and the floral scent of blooming trees drifting every which way they walked, Steve liked nothing more than to take advantage of the season. He would shirk what duties he had to take a book or a sketch journal to Central Park, find an unoccupied tree to lean against, and spend hours reading or dragging his charcoal pencils across thick paper. It was whimsy that led him on these days and he sketched with abandon, putting to paper whatever came to mind or tracing scenes he saw around him.

He took his jacket off when it grew warm enough, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and edged his shoes off to dig his toes into the grass. Some days, he lay his jacket on the grass and lay across it on his stomach, although this was a bit improper and it would have shocked his mother to see him so.

It was a day just like that, with the sun hot overhead and the white and pink blooms of Central Park moving with what little wind there was. Steve had his shoes on, although his jacket was off, and he was laying down on his back, his knees pulled up and his head deep in thought. His sketch journal rested on his stomach, a half-etched scene of a young man and his dog running across the park. He had seen them earlier—a boy his own age, with curly brown hair, and a Golden Retriever, enjoying the warm weather together. It was only after Steve had begun drawing that he realized that he had unintentionally drawn Bucky’s face onto the young man’s body. He had blinked down at Bucky’s little chin dimple and shaken his head in bemusement at that and then laid down, suddenly fatigued, wishing there was someone to talk to instead.

Steve was only just about to drift off, when he opened his eyes and blinked into the face of someone peering down at him.

“Oh!” Steve said, his heart rate speeding up in surprise.

The man who loomed above him was tall—even a bit broad—with golden hair that was pulled back at his neck and bright blue eyes that seemed to gleam in the buttery sunlight. He was wearing white trousers with some sort of a light blue linen jacket that was nicely tailored to his shape and a bowtie that was hanging haphazardly off of his neck. He very clearly came from wealth. The man was—Steve had to admit—extraordinarily beautiful and he looked even moreso when he grinned at Steve’s confusion.

“Did I wake you?”

  
**art:** A blond head popping over Steve while he's trying to read in the grass; **art by:** nalonzooo

“I wasn’t asleep,” Steve said, blinking even more rapidly.

“Oh good,” the man said. His voice was deep and soothing and he had a slight accent that Steve couldn’t place, but which was not displeasing to the ear. “I would have felt bad if I had.”

Steve, still laying down and staring at the other man upside down, felt his brain scramble to catch up to the situation.

“Forgive me,” Steve started and the other man brightened.

“Oh, you’re forgiven,” he said.

That made Steve glare at him slightly, which made the other man laugh. This too was a nice sound that made something pleasant bristle in Steve’s stomach. Steve sat up, his sketch journal sliding into the grass.

“ _Forgive me_ ,” Steve said again, “but do I know you?”

The young man bent to pick up the sketch journal for Steve, but instead of giving it back, he held it back up instead.

“Hey! That’s—”

“Is this yours?” the man asked.

Steve, becoming ever more confused and disgruntled by this perplexing encounter, painstakingly got to his feet.

“No, I am just in the habit of carrying other’s private journals on my stomach,” he said. He held his hand out in irritation.

The man grinned, but still did not give it back.

“It’s just that this is very good,” he said. He looked at the scene of the young man and the dog and, without asking permission, flipped to the next page.

Steve, affronted, tried to reach for it.

“Excuse me! That is _personal_ —”

“I don’t know art very well myself, but my _sister_ actually works in art and she’s a terrible old hag—don’t mind if I say so it’s only the truth—but I’ve learned a thing or two from her and—” the man, rambling, went through a few more pages and stopped. “Say, you’ve got a sort, don’t you?”

  
**art:** Steve's sketch journal being ruffled through while he is affronted!; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve, flushed and growing more frustrated, stopped.

“What?”

“The people you draw are very good—lifelike, of course, but painstakingly careful,” the man said. He looked at Steve curiously. “It’s as though you’ve spent much time studying this one subject.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve snapped. “They’re all different people.”

The man frowned and tilted his head, as though trying to see the sketches from Steve’s perspective.

“Are you sure…? Because this is all the same—”

Steve managed to snatch the sketch journal back from the taller, broader man. He felt his cheeks warm and his heartbeat pick up as he cradled the journal to his chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said, putting both hands up in a peaceable gesture. “I seem to have offended you. I never mean to, I just get carried away. It’s just I was bored and on my way through the park and I watched you sketching for some time and then you took your jacket off and just lay on top and it looked—well—”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that, he only flushed more.

“Thor,” the man said abruptly, putting forth a large palm. “Thor Odinson.”

Steve’s eyebrows went up, his eyes immediately widening.

“Wait you’re—I know you!”

Thor blinked in surprise this time. His hand hung in the air between them awkwardly.

“You do?”

“I—well, in a way,” Steve said. His previous ire and confusion abated almost immediately, his chest filled instead with the kind of thrill he always got when something most satisfying happened. “I’ve heard a lot about you and—a friend of my good friend works for your father. Clint Barton.”

Thor gave Steve a wondrous look for a moment, before his expression cleared.

“Oh, Barton! He’s a bookkeeper, right? A funny sort of fellow, blond, always has crumbs falling out of his mouth.”

Steve grinned. “That’s the one!”

“He’s fine company! Well, I’ve only gone drinking with him once, but he was fine then—who is your friend? Wait, are you going to introduce yourself?”

Thor looked both so eager and sunny at once that Steve immediately felt a kindred spirit in him. There was a match in their energy and, the sketch journal incident completely forgotten, Steve found himself brightening, laughing.

“Yes, wait, sorry—you must think I am an absolute lunkhead,” he said.

“Well, only a bit of one, anyway,” Thor grinned.

“Well I suppose I can’t blame you for that. Rogers,” Steve said and this time held out his hand. Thor did not leave him empty-handed, grasping his palm and shaking it at once. “Steve Rogers.”

“Oh, Rogers!” Thor said, his voice brightening in recognition. “Of the Rogers-Barnes Steel Company?”

“The very one!” Steve said eagerly, then, in more hushed tones, “Well, before. Now it’s all under new ownership, although George Barnes is still chief owner and owns majority stock and, oh his son—James Barnes, that’s my friend. He’s quite close with Clint, I believe they met in college.”

“I don’t think I know him myself, but I believe our fathers,” Thor pointed at Steve and back at himself, “knew one another at least moderately well. I was sorry to hear of his loss. Father spoke highly of Joseph Rogers.”

Steve gave Thor a sad, but grateful smile.

“Thank you.”

“Oh this is good fortune of mine indeed,” Thor said and, to his credit, he did genuinely seem delighted by the whole encounter. “Well I have nothing to do for hours until I return to the docks and it’s much too nice outside for me to go back inside for any other reason. Would you do me the good favor of showing me around the Park? Or—well, wherever else you’d like to show me, I suppose, I can’t afford to be choosy.”

Steve was extremely pleased to be asked and said as much. He picked his jacket off of the grass, dusting it off, and instead of putting it back on, just slung it over his arm. He still cradled the sketch journal to his chest.

“I thought you were a native to the city,” he said, curiously. He knew Thor had grown up elsewhere, but that wasn’t to say he was a complete stranger.

“Yes, well,” Thor shrugged lightly. “It has been some time since I’ve been back and honestly, everything feels different every time I return. New York City changes at such a pace as I’ve never seen.”

“That’s true,” Steve said. He began walking toward the bridge and Thor followed at his side. “I heard you were in Portland for some time?”

“Ah yes,” Thor said. “The shipping business took me up there. I stayed longer than I thought I would.”

“Any reason?” Steve asked.

“Oh, there’s always a reason, Rogers.” Thor grinned at him, but said nothing else on the subject.

“We have someone in who spent some time in Portland as well,” Steve said. The two crossed the green, passing couples and families and children who were happy to be out with their equally happy dogs.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, a ward of...one of our company, Tony Stark,” Steve said. He hated to bring this up, but he was as curious about Thor as Thor seemed to be about him and, well, this was perhaps a meeting point. “Loki Laufeyson is his name. Did you meet him in Portland, by chance?”

Thor was quiet for a moment, which surprised Steve. When he looked at the other man, he looked thoughtful—almost cautious. Then, as though shaking it off, he smiled again.

“The name does sound somewhat familiar,” he said softly. “Maybe our paths crossed while we were there.”

“Yes, maybe,” Steve said, slowly.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, if he was going to be honest, but Thor did not seem to want to elaborate and they weren’t familiar enough for Steve to ask. So he let it be and instead asked Thor about his time in Europe instead.

That, Thor was only too happy to talk about. They spent an easy afternoon chattering in the sunshine, sharing stories, and laughing far too frequently to be appropriate. They did not really end up exploring Central Park very much and neither did they end up going anywhere else, either.

Strangely, neither of them took much much notice. It was truly a wonderful afternoon.

*

“I don’t know about that,” Peggy said, with a grin. “Brooklyn is over the river, it isn’t in another country altogether. We are not so cut off as you might think.”

Steve gave her a dubious look; one he always spared when she was trying to convince him that she had not actually betrayed him by leaving the island of Manhattan for somewhere over the bridge.

It was a nice, partially sunny April day, the first dry one after two weeks straight of miserable, wet seasonal weather. In that time, much had happened—Bucky had celebrated his thirtieth birthday to somewhat consternation at Brookfield, where Steve had invited Sam and Natasha and Clint for a dinner and a night of games and teasing Bucky relentlessly on a variety of matters; Steve and Thor had seen each other more than once again, with Thor calling on Steve and Sarah at Brookfield, even in the muggy rain, and Steve visiting Thor at the shipyard, where he was surprised to find that Thor’s height and breadth was not at all out of place; and Steve spun his web finer and finer around Sam and Natasha, who were growing closer and warmer each time they all spent time together. All in all, it had been a robust March and April seemed no less so for coming right after.

As it was, Peggy called on Steve one day, much to his absolute delight, and the two of them decided to take advantage of the lack of torrential downpour to take a car down Fifth Avenue toward Union Square, where they got off and indulged in the life of Manhattan, which was to say all sorts of shops and every bakery besides.

They stopped briefly in to a new candy shop that had opened and Steve, eyes wide and nearly vibrating with excitement, took in the rows and rows of candy displays—tubs of cream candy and peppermint, molasses candies and butterscotch. One side of the shop had tins of sour drops and gumdrops and cats-eyes and caramel squares. They spent a whole fifteen minutes inside, amiably bickering and going through each option until Peggy emerged with a small bag of lemon and orange candies and Steve carried with him a somewhat larger bag of caramels and gumdrops the colors of the rainbow, as well as hoarhound candies, which Steve did not particularly like, but which his mother did.

He was chewing on a sweet, orange gumdrop now as he made a face at Peggy.

“By the time the news reaches you over the river, it is old here and there have been half a dozen new developments and scandals besides,” he said.

His old friend, used to his antics and strong opinions as she was, just shook her head and adjusted the light green colored hat on top of her head. She reached into her bag with a gloved hand and extracted one lemon drop to suck on.

“Really?” she said, through her mouthful of candy. “You know absolutely every piece of gossip there is to know in New York society?”

Well that was a tall order, but Steve wasn’t going to say _no_.

“Yes, of course,” he said, with a grin. “There isn’t a thing that happens here that I don’t know about.”

Peggy was too proper to roll her eyes, but Steve felt her do so anyway, in her weary and Steve-worn soul.

“That is shocking then,” she said.

Steve finished his gumdrop and reached for another.

“What is?” he asked.

“That you have said _nothing_ of the new development,” she said. With a small smile, knowing she was reeling Steve in, she said, “Given how mysterious it all is. And how everyone is talking about it.”

Steve found a red candy, but paused, frowning.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What...mysterious thing?”

Peggy was also too polite to gloat, but that didn’t make her sound any less satisfied when she said, with relish, “That Loki received a grand piano from a mystery suitor.”

Steve forgot about his gumdrop entirely. He looked up at her, gawking.

“What?”

“Oh but surely you know all about that,” Peggy grinned. She put her little bag of candies away and began strolling down the street.

Steve stared after her, ogle-eyed, and then hurried to catch up.

“Don’t tease!” he said. “Loki has a suitor? They sent a piano?”

“Not a small one either,” Peggy said. “From what I understand it was ordered from Steinway & Sons and was one of the last designs Heinrich Steinweg left to his sons.”

Steve inhaled sharply, feeling a little dizzy.

“Who could—” he started and stopped. He tried to keep his eyes from bugging out as they did on occasion, when he was too surprised to process every piece of information efficiently. “They have no idea who it was? It wasn’t Tony himself?”

“No,” Peggy said. “Tony was as surprised as anyone. He was telling anyone who would listen at service last week.”

“Oh, I couldn’t attend,” Steve said, with a frown. “Ma wasn’t feel well.”

Peggy made a sound of empathy, but Steve’s mind was racing far too fast to pay much attention.

“He could never afford one himself, as a ward, could never hope to in all of his life,” Steve mused aloud. “His suitor must be someone—”

“Lavish?” Peggy offered.

“Established,” Steve said. “Very much so. And connected, I would guess.”

“You have no guesses?” Peggy asked, looking at him curiously. “You always have some sort of guess.”

“No,” Steve said and his frustration was genuine. “Perhaps I should have been paying better attention to—”

He was interrupted mid-thought by a familiar sight halfway down the street, dawdling in front of Tiffany’s.

“Thor!” he said aloud, in delight. Thor, being across the street, did not hear him of course, but Peggy looked up curiously.

“Thor Odinson?” she said.

“Yes,” Steve said happily. He grasped Peggy by the hand and pulled her quickly toward his new acquaintance. “He’s just back now in the city and his timing could not be better, because he’s a breath of fresh air when everything had grown ever so dull.”

Peggy raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm, but Steve ignored her.

“Thor!” he called as they got closer and this time the taller blond man looked up in surprise. It took barely a moment for him to recognize Steve and when he did, he brightened immediately.

“Steve Rogers,” he said. “I heard rumors you never left the Upper East Side.”

“If those are the only rumors you’ve heard, then I’ve escaped a lot that I deserve,” Steve grinned. Thor dwarfed him by a good half a foot, if not more, so when Steve went to embrace him in greeting, he barely reached his friend’s jaw.

“Well I definitely did not say that,” Thor grinned, with a wink. “But I don’t wish to be rude! Who is this beautiful lady with you?”

“Margaret Carter,” Peggy said. She did not care to be introduced when she could introduce herself. When she extended her hand, Thor looked happily surprised. “Peggy, with friends.”

“A pleasure, Ms. Carter,” Thor said and took her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked, impatiently. “I did not take you for a jewelry man. Or is there an engagement we should happily be waiting announcement of?”

Thor laughed at that, as though he found it particularly funny.

“No, not at all,” he said. “It’s my mother’s birthday next month and I’ve been away so long I thought I would send her something to remember me fondly by.”

“That is quite the present for a birthday,” Peggy said, looking past Thor into the store.

“My mother is quite the lady,” Thor said, with a smile. He turned away from Tiffany’s altogether. “What brings you both all the way down here?”

“Boredom, mostly,” Steve said.

“And candy,” Peggy offered. “Would you like a lemon drop?”

“I’d better not,” Thor said. “But thank you.”

Steve opened his bag.

“I have gumdrops and hoarhounds, if those are more your preference.”

Thor gave him a crooked smile that looked entirely too handsome on his already devilishly handsome face.

“Well I could never resist a gumdrop,” he said and reached inside for a green one.

“They’re my favorite as well!” Steve said, brightly. Thor popped the candy in his mouth and Steve felt a slight flutter in his stomach at the sight; just a little thing, like a nervous twinge or a—

“I’m glad it’s not just me,” Thor said. He stretched his arms above him, taking up more space than Steve would have guessed. His jacket, another light, linen thing, flapped in the breeze around him and his whole structure shifted until Steve could see the muscles move in his abdomen.

“What isn’t?” Peggy asked, as Steve was momentarily struck speechless.

“The boredom.” Thor let his arms down again and his hair, pulled back into a low ponytail again, flipped down over his shoulder. “I know I shouldn’t complain, but it’s been months now and it feels like there’s been nothing to do! I was promised much more of New York high society.”

Once Steve’s brain shifted back into coherency, he nodded and stretched, himself.

“It has been rather slow,” he said. “There’s usually half a dozen invitations by now—parties and gatherings, a ball, _something_ —”

“Oh, that’s it!” Thor exclaimed.

Peggy looked at him politely.

“A ball,” Thor said, looking at Steve. “A dance—something like that—that’s exactly what this place needs. Look, the weather is better and we are all young and restless and in need of amusement, wouldn’t you say?”

Steve found himself agreeing quickly.

“I do feel anxious,” he admitted. “Being inside with nothing to do. Oh, we haven’t had a dance in so long!”

“That is all they did in Europe while I was there,” Thor said, grinning. His face grew more open, shining brighter with enthusiasm the more the plans unwound. “Well, that and drinking. But definitely that. Oh we would spend spring and summer nights dancing until our feet bled, drinking until we couldn’t see straight, until we were too drunk to go to sleep, and then we would climb up onto any rooftop we could find, still in our finest, and watch the sun rise.”

Steve tried to imagine this and the whole notion was so _romantic_ and vibrant and _exciting_ that he sighed. His chest felt tight at the thought—not from anxiety, but out of an untempered yearning, an ache to have such a night as that here in the place he loved best.

“What’s to stop us?” he said.

“What?” Thor paused, with a confused smile.

Steve looked at Peggy, growing more and more excited.

“Right, Peggy? Who is to stop us from having such a dance? We could have it at Shield Club or at Brookfield or—well, there are halls we could have available to us if we asked or, oh I bet Tony knows a place that a Rockefeller attempted to name after themselves and that he bought out of rivalry instead.”

Peggy chuckled at that, but Thor laughed loudly, boisterous. The sound of his laughter filled the space between them and before Steve knew it, Thor had swept him away, an arm around his shoulder, a hand in Steve’s hand, pretending to dance him down the street.

“That is exactly what we will do then, Steve,” he said and his thrill was catching—it filled Steve from head to toe the way champagne did, making him feel fizzy all over. “We’ll have a dance this spring. A loud, joyous affair with too much drink and just enough dance. We will go until the sun rises again and then we’ll sleep in our fine clothes in the park and pick up bottles and begin all over again. It will be an event to remember—the talk of society!”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, a grin spilled across his face. The color was high in his cheeks, the thrill rapid in his breastbone. He could imagine the night, just as Thor said, and he could not imagine wanting for anything less.

And after all, who was Steve to say no to that? For one, he loved parties and for another, he loved dances even more. And for another, how could he say anything else as he was being giddily twirled down the streets of Manhattan by a man too handsome by half, who Steve could not stop laughing with?

*

The preparations for the dance were all anyone talked about for the next month. It was decided that it would take place at the beginning of May, which only gave them April to plan the wheres, whens, and hows of it all. Peggy accompanied Steve to buy a new suit and Steve and Thor spent some time going from hall to hall to decide which would be the best room for dance, before deciding that in order to keep the whole event exclusive to their set, the Shield Club would be the most sensible choice of all.

Choosing the venue was only part of it, of course, because then Steve had to plan the design of the dance, and the catering, and make sure the numbers were enough for everyone willing and able to have a partner. In the midst of all of this, Steve had to draw up the invitations and make sure they were properly sent and before any of that could be done, he had to make sure the music was accounted for and that both Sam and Natasha would be free to attend.

All in all, he had as busy an April as he had ever had, so when Vernon came to him, telling him he had a telephone call, Steve was so busy preparing lists, he did not even think to ask who it might be. He stood, smearing ink across his fingertips as he rushed to set aside his paper.

“Oh, drat,” he muttered and was flustered by the time he made it to the living room, where the new candlestick telephone was installed. “Hello? This is Mr. Steve Rogers.”

“What is it?” came Bucky’s perplexed voice.

Steve frowned. He had one hand on the candlestick stand and was holding the receiving cone up to his ear.

“What do you mean what is it?” he said and paused, confused.

“You were so frantic in your letter and—” Bucky sounded a bit frantic himself. “I thought perhaps something had happened to you or Mrs. Rogers—is she all right? Is everything all right?”

“Is that why you called?” Steve said. He was a little exasperated, but a little amused as well. Telephone calls were not inexpensive. They were a luxury, used only during times of extreme duress or special occasions. This was neither.

“What do you mean is that why I called?” Bucky’s voice—which had sounded a little far off—suddenly came across the line loud and clear. “You said—and I read your _own_ letter back to you, _Bucky, I hope this letter finds you well. I have a bit of a situation and would like your reply at your earliest convenience. Best, Steve. Postscript—it is nothing seriously the matter, do not worry._ ”

Steve stared at the mouthpiece.

“It said right there not to worry!”

“You tell me not to worry and you think I will not worry?” Bucky exhaled over the line. Steve could only imagine the look of extreme fatigue and consternation on his old friend’s face. He was likely dragging his hand down the length of it and thinking of new ways to yell at Steve.

“Yes, usually when I write something, I hope the person reading the letter will listen to what I have said.” Steve tried not to sound as amused as he was but, well, he couldn’t help it.

“You are a menace and a half,” Bucky said, sounding irritable. “So nothing is wrong?”

“On the contrary, everything is very right!” Steve said, ignoring Bucky’s distress and only wanting to talk about the dance now. “Oh, you’ve been gone for weeks, you’ve missed all of the fun and news.”

“What fun and news?” Bucky asked warily.

“There is to be a party!” Steve said, all excitement again. The candlestick phone was larger and more unwieldy than Steve would have liked and it was set on a side table, with very little room for movement. In order to make himself comfortable, Steve perched himself on the arm of the couch closest to the table, crossing his legs and readying himself to speak into the phone for some time.

“A party?” Bucky said. “Wait, you wrote me such an urgent letter for a _party_?”

“Nothing could be more important,” Steve said, fact-of-fact. He could sense Bucky open his mouth to argue back, so he ploughed on. “It will be in the middle of May, when the weather will be nice and we can wear all of our new spring clothes. Formal, of course, but full of drink and food and revelry and—oh it was the idea of a friend of mine, Thor Odinson—”

“Thor Odinson?” Bucky interrupted. “Of Odinson Shipping?”

“That’s the one!” Steve said. “He’s recently back in the city and we have run into one another on more than one occasion and—he is unlike anyone we have ever known, Bucky. He is full of life and all of these ideas and of course that is because he has all kinds of experience that we do not have ourselves—”

“I heard he made quite a name for himself while he was in Europe,” Bucky muttered over the line.

“He was very well liked,” Steve agreed.

Bucky made some kind of a noise on the phone, but Steve could not decipher it.

“Anyway, it was his idea because the season really has been remarkably slow and of course I agreed right away because I’ve been _dreadfully_ bored but now—well, the planning has been overwhelming, but it’s coming together quite nicely.”

“You’re planning it?” Bucky asked, after a moment.

“Yes,” Steve said. He twirled the short black wire around his finger. “Thor offered, but this isn’t something I can trust with someone else. You understand.”

“Yes,” Bucky said and Steve could hear the reluctant smile in his voice that time. “I understand.”

That warmed Steve a bit. Bucky did not have any sway over him, of course, but it did feel nice to be so acknowledged and seen by a friend he had known for so long.

“You’ll come?” Steve asked, after another moment. “That’s why I sent you the letter, not to give you a heart attack.”

“You never mean to give me a heart attack, but you do so anyway,” Bucky said, but with a resigned chuckle. “You know I don’t dance.”

Steve frowned and twisted the cord some more until he unwound it.

“Every young man and woman likes to dance, Bucky.”

“Not all of them,” Bucky said. “Not me.”

“You are just stubborn and think you are far older than you actually are,” Steve said.

“I am thirty years old now, Steve,” Bucky said. His voice was so solemn that Steve rolled his eyes. “Practically on my deathbed. When I leave this Earth, will you make sure my ashes are cast out to sea? Or—oh, you know those viking funerals, with the flames? I should like that.”

“Oh, hush,” Steve scolded. “That is practically no age at all. And if you die on me now, before the dance, I will be so cross I will haunt you in death.”

“I think the dead are the ones who usually haunt,” Bucky said.

“I will make a new rule for it,” Steve said and then said again, “You will come. Bucky. I have planned everything and if you do not come, it will ruin all of my efforts.”

The silence over the line was not oppressive, but thoughtful, almost—soft.

“My presence is so requested?” Bucky asked quietly.

“Your presence is so required,” Steve said, with affection.

“Well then, I would be a monster to say no,” Bucky said.

He sounded, as usual, exceptionally put upon. Still, he said yes, not no, and he did so with the sweetness and good nature that Steve always took such comfort in.

“Only one can be a monster in this relationship,” Steve said with a smile. “And it cannot be you.”

Bucky huffed for a moment and then chuckled and then began to laugh.

Steve laughed too, until they were both laughing heartily, together, laughing until their stomachs ached and the phone line cut out for them both.

  
**art:** "My presence is so requested?" Bucky asks. "Your presence is so required," Steve answers.; **art by:** nalonzooo

*

When all was said and done, the Shield Club looked done up for the event of the season and so did everyone stepping out of their private streetcars. It had been a warm, beautiful May day, the kind that had everyone itching in their skins to do something—to do anything; to be out, with others, moving as much as they could, tilting their faces up to the sun and drinking in the heat and light.

Everyone looked happy as they stepped down the sidewalk to the Club entrance, where a gentleman in a formal tuxedo and white gloves was holding open the door and politely greeting the guests. The guests themselves were dressed in their finest—men in black tuxedos and nice, stylish suits from that season and women in dresses of all colors, necks lower than they were during the winter, with shorter, puffed sleeves, waists cinched in, and bustles that were embroidered and beaded and flowed down just so.

Peggy was in a light pink gown with fine, white embroidery and Angie, next to her, was resplendent in a turquoise dress with short sleeves and a lace collar that actually touched the top of her neck. They both greeted Steve warmly, kissing his cheek, before stepping inside, arm-in-arm.

Steve caught sight of Loki, in a simple black suit and his long, dark hair tucked back behind his ear, and assumed he had somehow missed Tony, who had already disappeared inside. That was fine with Steve, because his mother had already gone inside and Steve was nearly fluttering with excitement as he greeted everyone, clutching arms, and receiving cheek kisses, and generally flushing with pride as everyone—almost everyone!—commended him on what a great idea this was and how well-planned it appeared to be.

“Will you not be going in, Meister?” a mouth brushed his ear.

An electric spark slid down his spine and he turned to find Thor towering over him, looking so handsome in a suit of dark navy and his golden hair pulled back at the nape with a black ribbon, that Steve nearly forgot how to speak.

“I was waiting to greet everyone,” Steve said, once his brain had caught up to the situation. He blushed a little as Thor gave him a quick lookover, looking pleased at Steve in his black tuxedo. There was a little embroidery on the lapels, which was not usual, but Steve was not the usual sort anyhow.

“There isn’t someone to announce names?” Thor asked, to which Steve immediately gave an offended look.

“Of course there is! I am no amateur,” he said. “I wanted to _personally_ greet everyone before they went in.”

“Well it seems you’ve received most of them,” Thor said, grinning. “And you look much too nice to be wasted as a greeter anyway. Will you not come inside and enjoy this event you’ve put together?”

Steve hesitated, knowing they were still expecting some company—Bucky hadn’t shown up yet, for one, and neither had Ward McAllister, and Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt, though William K. and Alva were already in attendance, or Waldorf Astor, who was in New York for the first time in a few years.

“Come on,” Thor said, his voice warm. He extended Steve a hand. “You’ve done all the work. Now it’s time to play.”

Steve, well, he would be hard put to say that he could ever resist a charming invitation like that.

“Oh, fine,” he said. “I suppose the rest can find their way in.”

He did feel a bit bad, but it was difficult to feel that way for too long, the way that Thor grinned at him and, without proper invitation, took Steve’s hand in his own.

Steve felt warm all over, an unfamiliar pool of heat in his gut and a distinct fuzziness in his head at the touch. Before he could think about it too much, Thor had pulled him away from the station and in through the door to the dance.

*

The thing about dances was that there was nothing high society loved more than to turn out to an event where they could be beautiful, well-fed, and drunk. The evening began with more food than drink, but then slowly turned to more drink than food, and by the time the music began in earnest, everyone was well on their way to being drunk—first in spirit and then in everything else.

The Shield Club glittered under candlelight and newly installed electric lights, most of the chairs and tables moved entirely out of the room to make as much space for dancing as could be accomodated. Steve was nervous, initially, worried for the evening to be a success, but he soon realized that there was no way the evening could _not_ have been one. As soon as the music started, there were more than a handful of pairs on the floor already, hand in hand for the lively two-step, and respectfully closer together when the music changed for the waltz.

Steve drank his fill and watched his friends closely to make sure they were enjoying themselves, but it turned out that in this, too, he needn’t have worried. To his pleasure, he saw Sam dancing with Natasha, Peggy and Angie flushing with the two-step, and even Clint and Maria, swinging one another around graciously in a manner that did not quite match the music, but was close enough.

There was plenty of company chatting loudly around the periphery—those who were tired or unskilled or proclaimed themselves too old to dance. These people Steve still tried to encourage to join the rest, but although he got plenty of praise and grateful smiles, he was, in the end, only able to motivate one or two to the middle.

Of these, Bucky was one. He had come a little late, but looked exceptionally handsome, in a dark green suit jacket and lighter pants, a bowtie at his neck, and his curls slicked into submission. Steve’s first instinct was to reach his hand up and pull at one of his friend’s curls. The next was to rib him for standing still.

“Plenty of people waiting for a partner and you stand here as though you were made of two left feet!” he chastised.

“Oh there is sure to be a Rockefeller or a Frick who is a bachelor and delighted to take a lady for a spin,” Bucky said. He stood against the wall, a drink in hand, watching the merriment with a content smile on his face.

“Who could possibly wish to dance with a _Frick_ when the most eligible Barnes son is right here, leaning against the window as though it owes him some debt?”

Bucky looked scandalized at Steve’s teasing, which made Steve laugh. He reached forward to pluck the champagne flute from Bucky’s fingers and that, too, made Bucky look shocked. Well, a slight pink stained the high angles of his cheekbones, anyway.

“Are you mocking me?” Bucky said.

“Why yes,” Steve said, with a frown. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Why, you little—”

Steve grinned widely and drowned out Bucky’s light, teasing curse by drinking the rest of his champagne.

“Thank you so much,” Steve said, handing the glass back. “I was ever so parched.”

“You _brat_ ,” Bucky started again, but this time Steve was distracted by a tap on his shoulder.

“That is about enough of that,” Thor said, having finally found Steve.

“Thor!” Steve brightened at the other man.

The taller man looked flushed and happy, with his bowtie already loosened and tendrils of blond hair already escaping from his ribbon.

“It is time for the architect to have fun, don’t you think?” Thor asked, with a wink. He bowed to Bucky. “Will you allow me the honor of stealing Steve from you?”

Bucky watched the two closely, empty flute in his hand.

“He is his own man,” he said, with a shrug.

Thor’s smile widened.

“In that case, Steve,” he said, turning to Steve. To Steve, too, he bowed low. “Will you do me the honor of dancing?”

Steve, chest fluttering, excitement spiking in his stomach, nodded.

“Yes, I think I will,” he said and took Thor’s hand again. “I would be delighted.”

  
Steve did love to dance and Thor was nothing but a consummate partner. He paid attention to Steve’s needs and Steve’s motions and it was not long before they developed a rhythm and chemistry between them. The music was lively and the company even moreso. If the dance left Steve flushed, it was only because he and Thor were already speaking over one another, making each other laugh, so by the time his heart rate caught up to him because of dance, he was already nearly breathless.

They danced the two-step, then a waltz, took a moment to rest, and went again.

Thor was not the only partner Steve kept that evening. He danced with Peggy and with Natasha and once with Maria, with a Frick—much to Bucky’s amusement from the side—and with Angie, once, quickly. As Steve spun, caught in his own world of music and lively dance, he spied the other couples too. Peggy and Angie danced together most of the night, of course, and Maria and Natasha once or twice—they seemed to be smiling and on good terms, much to Steve’s relief—but Steve was surprised to see Loki and Thor come together for a waltz, the two looking pleased and Loki looking as happy as Steve had seen him yet.

The music changed and Steve begged off an invitation from a Griswold to get a drink. It was at this point that he noticed that Sam, who had been off the floor for a few numbers, was politely having a drink of his own not too far from Steve.

Steve grinned at him and was about to ask how his night was going, when two young persons Steve could not name began whispering loudly.

“Oh have you not taken a circuit about in a while?” one young man asked the young woman next to him.

“The invitations to dance have been light,” the young woman admitted reluctantly.

“Well what about—” the young man scanned the room and his eyes fell on Sam. “Him! That fellow there.”

The young woman looked at him and when she spoke, her shock was equal to Steve’s.

“ _Him_?” she said, a little too loudly. “That is a man of no wealth. Look—you can tell by his jacket. It is a year old, if it is a day.”

Her companion said something Steve didn’t catch and the young woman rolled her eyes again, her voice carrying certainly louder than she intended to.

“Don’t insult me, Richard. I would rather sit out the rest of the night than—oh, I cannot believe you suggested that!”

The young woman hit her friend on the arm and the two turned away, whispering and giggling in shock some more.

Steve could barely believe his ears, but that was likely because his blood was pounding in them, making it difficult to hear anything else. His stomach full of acid and his anger burning, he was about to speak with a fury that would have been shocking to pleasant society. It turned out that he did not have to.

“What a bunch of classless simpletons,” Bucky said loudly, glaring at the two of them. The two paused, looking back, and evidently recognized Bucky because their mouths dropped open in horror. “It becomes clear to me that money can’t buy everything in the world. Don’t mind them, Sam. Someone’s true class comes from their heart and strength of character, not the shoes they wear. I suppose that lesson must be hard to come by, for some.”

Sam, whose expression had remained calm despite this awful affront, gave Bucky a faint, half-grateful smile. Steve could see from the lines of his friend how uncomfortable he was—Sam might never show it, but he could not have heard their cruel words and escaped unaffected.

“Say, would you like to dance?” Bucky said then, still loud enough to hear. “I’ve finally gotten an itch for it and I could not dream of a better partner to ask.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and finished his drink.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he said and Bucky, taking his hand, led Sam onto the floor.

Steve didn’t have time to mull on this long before the Frick found him again. This time he had no excuse to say no. Still, as he pulled her out onto the floor, he looked over to where Sam and Bucky were dancing—Bucky even smiling—and felt a sharp stab of pride for his friend. Bucky Barnes, for all his faults, was the best person Steve had ever known.

He was smiling over at him when the Frick girl put hands on his waist.

“Come, the music is starting again!” she said and they were off.

Steve and the girl passed by Natasha and Clint on their way around the room and—to Steve’s utmost astonishment—they weren’t even fighting. If anything, the way Clint had his hand to Natasha’s back and the way she rested her hand on his shoulder, closer than they had any reason to be, spoke to familiarity—intimacy, even.

It was a quick look, but Steve saw Clint smile shyly down at her and Natasha smile up at him with affectionate exasperation. It was a look Steve knew well. Bucky gave it to him all the time, after all.

_Curious _, Steve had just enough time to think, and then he and the Frick girl were whirling past them and down the opposite end of the dance floor.__

*

“I saw what you did,” Steve said.

It was cooler outside now that night had fallen, but after the heat and the energy inside the Club, it was a welcome respite. The nice, balmy air felt cool, nearly soft against Steve’s overwarmed cheeks and he was tempted, for a moment, to take his jacket off altogether. He didn’t think Bucky would mind, really, but he also didn’t want to go through the trouble of putting it back on.

Instead, Steve leaned against the railing on the Club’s back porch, closing his eyes and tilting his face up to the moonlight.

“What was that?” Bucky said, after a moment.

Steve cracked one eye open and saw his friend was watching him.

“You stood up for Sam,” Steve said. “You spoke for him. Rescued him when those two spoiled brats were being awful. I cannot abide them. If it weren’t for you I would have made a scene.”

Bucky shook his head with a quiet laugh.

“I know you would have,” he said. He, too, leaned against the railing. “I didn’t even see you there though, truthfully. I just heard them on the way across the room and oh, that had my blood boiling. The absolute, damned nerve. Just because they were invited tonight—a party Sam was invited to as well!”

Steve could not have agreed more. When he thought about it again—well, it was a good thing Bucky had been there to intervene.

“There are people out there who cannot think beyond wealth,” Steve said out loud, with no little disgust. “They think they can judge a person because he does not have money. Because he does not have the latest coat. As though a coat can substitute for manners or a good heart. Sam—he might not have wealth, but he has the best heart of anyone I know. He is worth twice of them—three times of them!”

Bucky said nothing to this impassioned speech, although he gave Steve a strange look. When he leaned more fully against the railing, his shoulder bumped into Steve’s own.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Bucky asked quietly.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” Steve admitted. “I know I’ve known him less than a year, but I don’t believe that matters. I know him to be a kind, loyal, upstanding friend and an even better man. He deserves nothing less than the world.”

“And will you give it to him?” Bucky asked curiously.

Steve paused, looking at Bucky in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Bucky said. He said nothing for a moment and then exhaled, slowly. “Do you not recommend yourself for him? Is there a reason you haven’t…”

Steve’s look turned into a stare. Then, once he understood, he laughed out loud.

“Me and Sam!” he exclaimed. “No, it’s not like that at all. Please Bucky, we are only dear friends.”

Bucky nodded. He didn’t look particularly convinced, but he did look thoughtful.

“Is that not something you are interested in?” he asked. “With your...dear friends?”

Steve felt amused by that still—just the thought of him and Sam together. He shook his head.

“I told you before, Bucky. I don’t plan to marry.”

Well that was true, still. More or less anyway. But then Steve thought of pulled back golden hair and a bright smile under bright blue eyes. His stomach tightened and he _was_ sure, but perhaps he wasn’t entirely anymore.

“That’s true,” Bucky said. “You have told me that.”

Steve nodded and then, in one comfortable movement, laid his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Steve,” Bucky said softly, after a moment. He sounded...quiet, almost punched through with some sort of pain. Steve did not understand it.

“What about you, Buck?” Steve asked. “Will you leave me? Is there someone here tonight who has caught your eye? A Vanderbilt or a Frick or a—”

“No, Steve,” Bucky said. “Not a Vanderbilt or a Frick.”

“Will you tell me?” Steve said. “When you find someone who does?”

Bucky said nothing to that. Under Steve’s head, he could feel his friend tense.

“I don’t mean to be busy only—” he took a breath and lifted his head. He looked at Bucky until his friend turned his head to look at him. “You’re a pain to me, as mean and scolding as anyone dares to be. But you’re dear to me as well. We have grown up together all of these years and if you find someone, if you mean to leave me, well then—”

“I’m dear to you?” Bucky asks, voice so quiet it’s nearly inaudible.

Steve took a breath and then, impulsively, took Bucky’s hands between his own. Bucky’s hands, as familiar to him as his own, were cool from the night air, but their shape was the same to Steve, soothing in how well he knew them.

“I want to know,” Steve said. “It will be the most painful thing, to lose you to someone. So if and when that happens, you must tell me, Bucky Barnes. Do you promise?”

Bucky stared at him for a long time then—long enough, without word, that Steve feared that he had offended him. Then, slowly, Bucky exhaled. He pressed a cool, familiar palm to Steve’s cheek.

“I will let you know,” he said. “If you ever lose me to someone else.”

The thought made Steve feel—well, cold and not a little sad. He hated to think about it, so he pushed it to the back of his mind. Steve swallowed and nodded.

The air between them hung heavy, almost dense with melancholy. Steve regretted having brought it so low, after how light and sweet it had been before.

“It is the last dance of the night,” he said, finally. “I can hear it inside.”

“Will you dance it?” Bucky asked. He had taken his hand back, but still watched Steve closely, quietly.

“If the right partner asks me to,” Steve said, wryly. He gave Bucky a meaningful look, which Bucky interpreted correctly, right away.

“Will you dance with me, then?” he asked.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” Steve teased.

He took Bucky’s outstretched hand—again, soft and familiar.

“I don’t,” Bucky said. “But I am not above making an exception.”

They didn’t even go inside. The music drifted out through the large, open windows and because the curtains were drawn, Steve and Bucky were left uninterrupted on the porch.

The song was a waltz, a slow one.

Steve looked up at his old friend—his familiar, handsome, almost incomprehensibly beautiful face lit up in the moonlight—and something soft and tender moved in him. It hit him quietly, in the center of his chest, like an almost silent gasp.

Bucky’s hand in Steve’s hand, one hand on Steve’s back, they moved together to the music; quietly, happily, in sync.

  
**art:** "I will let you know," Bucky says. "If you ever lose me to someone else."; **art by:** nalonzooo

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gasped and clutched my chest at the last piece of art. My heart SWOOPED.


	9. IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not _sour_ ,” Steve protested to his mother. He didn’t kick his feet up, but he considered it. “I am _bored_.” 
> 
> “Call it whatever you like,” Sarah said. “As long as you do so elsewhere and with someone else.” 
> 
> Well that was rude, at the very least, but Steve supposed he could not blame his mother, _really_. He _was_ being unbearable, even by his own standards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're winding down now! (Or ramping up??) Only three more chapters after this! 
> 
> Your comments and reactions the past few chapters have been an utter delight. I can't wait to read them for this one. O:)

**PART IX.**

**SUMMER.**

Summer came sooner than predicted for the entire city. It was no sooner the end of May than the weather turned hot and humid, the air hazy with the kind of sluggishness that came with heat. By June, the heat was enough that most everyone tried to stay indoors unless there was a good breeze or someone organized a trip to the beach. Summer also meant that people came and went from the city, retreating to their summer houses for the week or on weekends, meaning there was never any certainty that Steve would find who he was looking for where he was looking for them.

Sam went to visit his sister in Boston during the beginning of June, which made Steve feel lonely and restless, and Bucky stayed out of the city for nearly a month because his eldest sister, Rebecca, was preparing for her wedding upstate. The affair was small and only members of the immediate family were allowed to attend, so Steve was not entirely offended at receiving no invitation, but he was offended at how long Bucky was going to make him wait for his company again.

Then Natasha left for a while in the middle of June, although she would not say for where, and even Tony and Loki were in and out of town, there one weekend and to some Stark summer house on Long Island or on Martha’s Vineyard the next. It was not as though Steve spent a lot of time with Tony Stark and his ward, but it was the whole principle of the matter.

The Rogers themselves could have retreated to one of their summer houses and, in fact, had on occasion in the past taken to one near the water, for Sarah’s health, but she fretted being away from Brookfield so much it was hardly worth the effort.

Not having his friends or his circle available to him when he most needed social companionship made him moodier than he usually was—something even his mother commented on.

“Please, go out,” Sarah Rogers said to her son, in an unprecedented moment of encouraging him to be out of her eyesight and sphere of protection. “You are so sour it is nearly driving me mad.”

“I’m not _sour_ ,” Steve protested to his mother. He didn’t kick his feet up, but he considered it. “I am _bored_.”

“Call it whatever you like,” Sarah said and returned to her embroidery, which she only did on occasion, and only when she was feeling contrary, because although the doctors said it was good for her to have a hobby, Sarah claimed stabbing at the same material in different colors could not possibly be considered a proper hobby. “As long as you do so elsewhere and with someone else.”

Well that was rude, at the very least, but Steve supposed he could not blame his mother, _really_. He _was_ being unbearable, even by his own standards.

Luckily, there was one person left in town who Steve was almost certain would feel just as dreadful as he did.

“I almost wish I was back in Portland, truthfully,” Thor said. He was laying on the grass in Central Park, while Steve was lounging against a tree—not too far from where they had initially met. “It is a much less lively town than Manhattan, but at least it is by the water and you can go on boats if you like. Everything is so stuffy and proper here.”

Steve hummed. The day was hot, but the humidity was, for once, not entirely oppressive. Still, Steve was without his jacket and he had his arms and his pant legs rolled up. He had a book next to him, closed because he had not even attempted to open it.

Around them were other park-goers, some lazing about on blankets, some with food for picnics, and others with a pet or a child or someone they were sweet on. No one moved very much, not even the children, who sat with their dogs and sweated through their layers.

There was a general malaise about them all, a thick, summer sluggishness that made Steve as antsy and cross as it made him feel lethargic.

“I do not know how much more of this I can bear,” Steve admitted. “It’s almost high summer and we haven’t done a thing since the dance. No one is in town on the same day and the last time I went to the beach I nearly got sun poisoning and if I tried again, my mother would almost certainly faint from shock. Or have me locked in Brookfield. Indefinitely. So what does that leave me? Nothing. _Nothing!_ ”

If Bucky were here, he would call Steve dramatic, but that was only because Steve was _being_ dramatic. He had every right to be that way, given his situation.

He felt fitful. He felt like _having_ a fit. He almost wished it were winter and not close to his birthday.

“There must be something we can do,” Thor murmured.

Steve looked up and over at him. The other man was laying on the grass plainly, his left leg bent at the knee, his shirt unbuttoned well past his open throat. His hair wasn’t held back today, but strewn about him loosely. He ate an apple in somewhat silent contemplation, until he looked over at Steve, and Steve jolted a little at being caught out staring like that.

“Like what?” he asked.

“A game of some sort,” Thor said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Another party. Summoning spirits.”

Steve made a face at that and stretched his legs in front of him.

“If we summon spirits and Ma comes to find out, she will never allow me home again,” he said.

“They will be friendly spirits,” Thor said lazily. “The kindest spirits one can find. And if there are any malevolent ones, then we can summon them for—”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“—Stark,” Thor said, with a wicked grin.

Steve burst out laughing at that, it was so mean, but funny too.

“Do spirits take requests?” he asked, grinning.

“I am an Odinson,” Thor said and took another bite of his apple. “If they don’t, I can simply ask them if they take cash.”

Steve rolled his eyes a bit, but the idea did cheer him up some. He watched a child chase enthusiastically after a golden retriever. He watched them long enough to see them bump into some kind of a performer, who, given the way he was dressed and his caricaturistic facial expressions was almost certainly a…

“Mime,” Steve muttered in confusion.

“Hm?” Thor looked up.

That gave him the idea, in a circuitous way he would never be able to explain.

“Well,” Steve said. His voice grew brighter the more he thought about it. “There is the opera.”

From his prone position, Thor blinked. Then he pushed himself up on one elbow.

“The opera?”

“I haven’t been in some time, but—oh, we can get dressed up nice and invite our close friends to come and join for an evening,” Steve said. “It can be a special occasion. Oh, my birthday!”

“Your birthday?” Thor asked. Now he was looking excited. “When is that?”

“Next month,” Steve said. “On the Fourth. It will be too much to celebrate on Independence Day, but we can go around then, perhaps the weekend after—that gives everyone plenty of notice to come back to town and stay for the weekend. I’ll tell Sam and Natasha, Bucky and Clint.”

“Loki,” Thor said. He sat up properly now.

Steve almost frowned, because he was not sure that Loki had not invented the opera himself, but then he shrugged.

“Then Tony too, I suppose,” Steve said. “And Rhodey. Maria! We cannot forget her.”

Thor nodded, looking satisfied now. He leaned his weight back onto his arms, his fingers digging into the green grass.

“The opera,” he said, happily. “For your birthday. It will be a treat for us all.”

*

Tucked in the middle of the Garment District, the Metropolitan Opera House was both uglier than the Academy of Music had been and somewhat smaller. The outside of the building looked industrial in nature, which was an offense to many sensibilities—including Steve’s own—but it did not matter that the whole structure was referred to as—owing to its own ugliness— _The Yellow Brick Brewery_ , because the shift of society from the Academy of Music to the Met was complete just three years into its operation.

Steve was too young to have too much of an opinion on the whole affair, although he had heard Tony complain more than once about how much worse the new opera house was and how there were far too many from the _nouveau riche_ in the theater. Bucky, at some point, pointed out that Tony attended his fair share of vaudeville shows at the Academy of Music to this day and anyway that hadn’t stopped the Starks from owning a theater box at the Met, to which Tony had huffed and simply muttered loudly about new wealth and upturned social norms once more.

Today was no different, except that Tony’s complaining about the size of the theater box was only about fifth on the list of irritating things he had already prattled on about on the way over. It was a shame that he was in such fine form because other than that, the group was friendly and in good spirit.

The opera was for those who could afford it—and much of their party could certainly afford it—but _all_ of their party was told to dress as if they could. The men were each of them in nice tuxedos, with nice, shiny top hats and the women were in dresses darker in color and even nicer in material. Maria, once more, appeared in a light-colored suit and a dark bowtie, with her hair pulled back, and before anyone could comment, she pulled someone next to her out of the cab.

Steve had never seen this person before, but the way Maria held her hand left no question in his mind _who_ she might be.

“Steve. This is—Brunnhilde,” Maria said, with a broad smile.

“I prefer Valkyrie,” the other woman said. She was dark-skinned and gorgeous, with a sharp smile and hair pulled back in braids close to her head. Like Maria, she wore a suit, although hers shimmered silver and the shoes she wore with them were high at the heels, six inches and black, with silver on the inside. Steve had never seen anything like it. He had never seen anyone like her.

  
**art:** Valkyrie, in her bloomer suit and six inch high heels; **art by:** nalonzooo

“Maria, I didn’t know—” Steve said, eyes wide, and she smiled, before Valkyrie pulled her to her side.

“I meant to tell you,” Maria said happily. Her eyes flickered over the group and found Natasha, in a high-collared dress of bright green and white lace. Natasha looked over at the three of them briefly and looked pleased. “Natasha introduced us. They know each other from abroad.”

Steve felt only a moment of anxiety about Sam, before realizing that was nowhere close to the appropriate response. Instead, he pulled his friend into a hug, whispering, “I am terribly happy for you,” into her ear.

For her part, Maria _looked_ terribly happy, which helped sooth whatever lingering anxiety or guilt Steve felt. Valkyrie ran a hand into Maria’s hair and tugged on it a little, which made Maria go a little cross-eyed and accept a public kiss to the jaw without any consternation. That, too, helped.

“Thanks for having me,” Valkyrie said, nodding to Steve, and Steve, straightening a little, wanting—for some reason—to impress this stranger with the slightly intimidating demeanor, smiled and said, “Any companion of Maria’s is a companion of mine.”

The group went up the stairs to the section with the private boxes. The velvet curtains closed behind them as they stepped inside, no one half as delighted or impressed by the size of the box more than Tony himself.

“Father donated a lot to the Academy of Music, of course,” Tony said, settling into his seat and craning himself back around to look at the rest of the company. “But when opera moved, we were not going to let a bunch of new money upstarts push the Stark family name out from the scene—I mean, we had practically created it ourselves. We are very large patrons of the arts, you see. The Starks practically brought opera to the city.”

“I think the Morgans have something to say about that,” Thor leaned over to Steve and whispered.

Steve grinned at that, smothering a laugh. Tony looked at the two of them in benign confusion and Bucky, from the row right behind them, frowned.

“It’s about to start,” Loki said then, quietly. His body was turned sideways, speaking with Bucky next to him, but both Steve and Thor heard.

Thor turned in his seat and leaned back. Loki blinked at him with a mild expression.

“Are you a frequent purveyor of the opera, Loki?” Thor said.

“It’s a beautiful art form,” Loki said. Eyebrow raised, he looked half as though he wasn’t sure why Thor was talking to him and half as though he was entertained it was happening at all.

“Could you be a part of it?” Thor asked. He leaned toward him eagerly. “We already know how well you play the piano. Perhaps you sing as sweet as a bird as well.”

Loki’s mouth twitched.

“I leave the singing for James,” he said. “Of possible duets, I prefer to be at the piano.”

“I see no one has asked _me_ if I wish to join the opera,” Bucky said, lightly affronted.

Loki turned his attention to him with a smile that was almost familiar. Steve felt his brows furrow, just slightly.

“And will you?” Loki asked. “If we did. You know very well what I think of your voice.”

Steve’s brows furrowed further.

“I mean father will be rather disappointed,” Bucky said, with a grin. “He had _some_ hopes for me.”

“You mean you can’t do both?” Sam asked. He was down the second row, in between Natasha and Clint, but clearly had overheard the conversation. “Who is to stop you from being the world’s first operatic...bookkeeper.”

“And heir,” Bucky said. ”Don’t forget that.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very accomplished,” Steve said. His voice wasn’t as waspish as it could have been, but it was just waspish enough that Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Thor interrupted the conversation. His attention was still on Loki. “I can’t imagine one who plays as well as you do could not sing like an angel as well.”

Loki colored at that, so blatant was it, and Steve found himself frowning. Bucky was looking at Steve and frowning as well. Tony, from his corner seat, was trying to get _someone’s_ attention, until a woman with strawberry blonde hair from the next box over caught his eye and gave him a dirty look. Tony looked surprised and then thoughtful.

“I won’t be changing careers just yet,” Loki finally said. His voice was quiet and he was watching Thor as closely as Thor was watching him.

“Well, then,” Thor said. “We will have to settle for your playing instead.”

“Oh that’s right,” Natasha’s voice came over the low din of the group. “I heard you got a piano from a mystery suitor. A Steinway. Any idea who?”

Loki looked away from Thor to give Natasha a soft smile.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t an idea.”

The group murmured a little at that, but then the lights began to dim.

“Hey,” Bucky said, leaning forward next to Steve’s ear. ”Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Steve said. He turned his eyes toward the front of the room, feeling his chest tighten with something impossible unkind. “Never better.”

Bizet’s _Carmen_ had only been around for fifteen or so years, but even so, it had become one of the most popular operas of the time. Steve had seen it once before with his mother and Peggy and although too young at the time to really understand it, found it to be beautiful and dramatic and reckless and tragic, the more salacious parts of it going over his head altogether. The opera was a story of the blind and rash pursuit of love, how consuming it could be, and how fickle as well, sometimes to tragic end. Once, the story had struck Steve as outlandish—a frustrating, romantic tale of unrealistic tragedy—but something about the story felt too close this time; the conflict too real; the whole tragedy entirely too uncomfortable.

The show was over three hours long, with only a short intermission in the middle, which was more than enough time for Steve to begin fidgeting. Once, he began to lean toward Thor to comment on an act, but Thor was glancing at Loki, who was watching the show, rapt. Next to Loki, Bucky caught Steve’s eye and raised an eyebrow and Steve, being caught, felt hot and embarrassed under his collar and turned back in his seat.

Another time, Tony leaned over Rhodey to say something to Steve, who was subsequently shushed by someone from the next box. There was a noise behind him and he could hear Bucky whispering something to Loki and somewhere to his left, he could hear Sam and Natasha’s voices very softly intermingling.

That left Steve feeling wrong-footed and more than a little left out, so when they had their fifteen minute break for intermission and he turned to see Thor disappearing with Loki and Sam and Bucky deep in conversation, Steve was so close to throwing a fit that the only thing that stopped him was the fact that Valkyrie was watching him with what looked like a knowing and amused smile.

Instead, Steve huffed lightly, crossed his arms at his chest, and sulked until the show began again.

  
If Steve had felt displaced and irate before the opera began, he continued to feel that way well through it. By the time it ended, everyone around Steve was in a soft state of high passion and melancholy emotion, but he himself felt just as dour and prickly as he had before.

“That was more emotion than I was expecting,” Maria said, in the wake of the curtain closing. “I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

“We can’t end our party on such a melancholy note,” Thor said, agreeing with her. “What we need is...a change in scenery. We are all gathered for the weekend at least, why not continue this fête tomorrow?”

The group agreed in a low rumble.

“Where to?” Sam asked aloud what they were all wondering.

“There’s always—” Tony started.

“He said a change in scenery, Tony,” Steve interrupted. “Let’s go elsewhere, for once.”

There was a slight pause as Tony blinked at Steve and, then, so did the rest of the group. Thor broke the awkward tension by grinning and slinging his arm around Bucky’s shoulders.

“He’s right,” Thor said. “How about you, Barnes? You are always speaking of coming in to the city, but we never have an opportunity to go up to your estates. If we begin early tomorrow, we’ll have all day and I have an itch to get away.”

Bucky schooled his expression into mild surprise, although Steve could see how much it cost him to do so.

“I guess we could go up to Baron Hall,” he said, referring to the Barnes Estate. “If others don’t mind the travel.”

Immediately, everyone murmured their hearty consent because getting away from the city sounded nice, but also, rarely had anyone been to visit the famed Baron Hall. Curiosity was hot.

“It’s settled then!” Thor said and let go of Bucky. “We’ll go home, refresh ourselves tonight, and then gather again tomorrow to visit Baron Hall.”

Bucky received the warm wishes and excitement with a brave face, but Steve knew his friend too well to not see the slight tension in the lines of his shoulder.

“Stay with us tonight,” Steve said, leaning in toward Bucky. “And we can all set off together tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Bucky murmured back. “I’ll call ahead and make preparations. If the place is not absolutely ready for company, mother will disown me. Not George Barnes. Winifred.”

At that, Steve shivered a little. If he had learned anything during his now four and twenty years alive it was that fathers could be stern and sometimes frightening, but mothers, tested, were always terrifying.

*

Baron Hall was in the heart of Mt. Vernon, which was not far enough away to require a stay overnight, but far enough that it took upwards of two hours to reach. The cars were split thus: Thor, Steve, Bucky, and Loki in one, Natasha, Maria, Valkyrie, and Sam in another, and finally, Tony, Rhodey, and Clint in the last. The windows were rolled down and the warm air drifted between them as the company chattered, their spirits picking back up after the opera had left them feeling so complicated the evening before.

“Hey, Barnes,” Thor said, leaning over from his seat next to Steve and tapping Bucky on the shoulder.

Bucky, who had been talking to Loki, blinked back at the other man.

“Baron Hall is said to be somewhat legendary, as large as it is,” Thor said. “Its reputation rivals the Breakers. You’re going to inherit all of it?”

“I have three sisters,” Bucky said. “Rebecca, Louise, and Eleanor. Becca’s just married, but the other two are much younger and will be within my care for some time longer.”

“Are they meant to inherit?” Thor asked, curiously.

“Not legally,” Bucky admitted. His expression softened. “But that is not to say they won’t. As long as they’re within my care, Baron Hall is as much theirs as it is mine.”

“And what about after, then?” Thor leaned over, resting his arms on the back of the seat in front of him.

Loki blinked at him and Bucky looked momentarily nonplussed, before his expression evened out into something more thoughtful.

“Then I suppose it will be mine,” Bucky said. “And for whomever I marry.”

For all that Bucky teased Steve of marriage, he rarely mentioned it himself. Steve now leaned forward as well, curious and slightly, inexplicably, uneasy.

“And is there someone you have in mind?” Thor grinned. “To share your estate with?”

Bucky gave him a bland smile and looked out the window as they crossed out of Manhattan.

“That’s not an answer,” Thor said.

“I don’t think he means to give one,” Steve said.

Thor leaned back with a shrug and didn’t ask any more questions. Soon, bored, he turned around and began to speak to Loki about something else or other. They did not engage Steve and that was just as well for him.

He couldn’t say for sure what he felt or why he felt that way, only that he felt just as moody and discomfited as he had the day before. Maybe it was the heat, he reasoned. Or perhaps he just hadn’t slept very well.

Regardless, the chatter resumed everywhere around him, without him. Steve, for his part, quietly watched Bucky the rest of the way up to Mt. Vernon.

*

The descriptions of Baron Hall could hardly live up to the truth of it all. Steve had, of course, been there a handful of times, given their families had been so close, but it had been some time since he had gone out of Manhattan and the awe that the rest of the party felt as they pulled up was shared by Steve as well. Baron Hall was not as sprawling as the Breakers, which the Vanderbilts had built as their summer home in Rhode Island, but the 200 acres the thirty room Barnes mansion sat on was more than enough to catch most breaths.

The party got out of their carriages, eyes widening as they took in the architectural masterpiece—George Barnes I, Bucky’s great-grandfather, had hired Richard Morris Hunt, one the best architects in New York City, to design the estate in the Beaux-Arts style, and he had clearly spared no expense. There were massive columns and porticos, large, sweeping windows, and dramatic, curved arches.

Thor whistled as they all stared around.

“Much less gaudy than the Breakers. I’ll be summering here instead of in Newport from now on.”

“Since when have you summered in Newport?” Loki murmured and Thor gave him a grin and a wink.

Bucky was greeted at the doorway by his manservant, William, who had been with the family long enough that even Steve had grown up knowing him. He told him to give his mother and his sisters advance notice that the party had arrived and to tell Eliza, their cook, that there was company to provide for. William, who had been warned by a phone call the night before, bowed to Bucky and to the rest of the group, before disappearing inside.

“Please, follow me,” Bucky smiled at the party and stepped up the stairs.

  
The inside of Baron Hall was no less impressive than outside. The mansion was enormous, with more rooms than sense and each room larger and more decorated than the last. The group spent the better part of an hour going from room to room, admiring the architecture and the artwork and the sheer breadth of what wealth could look like, a little ways out of the city. Where even some of the more luxurious homes in Manhattan felt just slightly smaller than they should be, Baron Hall was open and spacious, a true testament to what one could do with a little space.

The windows were thrown open to let in the warm summer breeze and it was here, in one of the rooms that was more hall than room, with large pieces of art on the wall and checkered, black-and-white floors, that Steve leaned. He looked out onto the green acres of an estate that was familiar to him in memory.

Behind him, he could hear Tony blathering on loudly, making a fuss over architecture and what the Starks had and had not invented and architects that he had personally known and artwork that could be found in Stark Manor, and Rhodey protesting whenever he was given a chance to speak. Somewhere to his side he could hear Maria and Valkyrie murmur to one another, sharing a laugh or two and even Bucky’s voice carried, as he interjected something Tony said. The sounds of their company overall were comfortable and almost pleasant, soothing Steve’s worn nerves, when, to his surprise, he saw Natasha and Clint stroll out through an open door to where the land behind the estate began.

Steve watched them closely, worrying at his bottom lip, and what he saw was as perplexing to him as it was inevitable.

Clint said something and Natasha snapped at him, as usual, shoving his shoulder in response. Clint said something else and Natasha argued with him, loud and irritated. She crossed her arms at her chest, looking unspeakably angry or, at least, incensed. Her red hair glinted in the sunlight, a stray curl moving with the breeze.

Natasha said something else, but Clint didn’t answer this time. After a moment, as though he couldn’t help it, Clint tucked the curl behind her ear.

Natasha looked as furious as Steve had ever seen her, her green eyes flashing, her mouth turned down in a frown. Then, before Steve could understand what was happening, Clint tugged on her waist and, when he thought no one was looking, leaned down to kiss her.

Steve felt the shock ripple through him. His fingers curled over the frame of the window, his eyes wide.

Instead of killing Clint on the spot, Natasha’s glare intensified. Then, all at once, the lines of her body relaxed and she leaned up to kiss him back.

“I had suspected,” Sam’s voice came softly at his shoulder. “From the dance.”

Steve, shocked and horrified, turned to Sam.

“Sam—they—I—” Steve stammered, his heart picking up. “I didn’t know, I _swear_. There is no way I could have known.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t understand it!” Steve said, feeling as though he was going to tear his hair out. “She _hated_ him. For years now, the two of them could not _stand_ to be in the same room together. She hates him! He hates her!”

A half-smile tugged at Sam’s mouth.

“You’re really surprised by this?”

“They have never, not once, acted friendly toward one another,” Steve said. “In all the time that I’ve known them! I mean—you’ve seen them, Sam. Have you ever stood in the same room and not seen them argue? I thought they might murder one another before—well, this!”

Outside, Natasha’s mouth curved into a smile—the first Steve had ever seen her give Clint. Sam just shook his head.

“You and Natasha had much better conversation. Better _temperament_ ,” Steve said. He sounded as frustrated as he felt. “You could spend time together without wanting to stab one another.”

Sam leaned against the windowsill, looking out at the sun-lit grounds.

“I think maybe that’s what she likes,” he said.

That made no sense to Steve.

“She likes...feeling as though she needs to murder someone?”

That made Sam laugh.

“I don’t think love is as straightforward as you make it out to be, Steve,” he said.

  
**art:** Steve and Sam catching Clint and Natasha having a tender moment together; **art by:** nalonzooo

“What’s the point if it isn’t straightforward?” Steve murmured.

“And I don’t think everyone ends up wanting the same thing,” Sam said, ignoring him. “Maybe for _you_ love looks like that—compatibility, matching temperaments, some measure of peace.”

Steve made a face and Sam smiled.

“But, I don’t think Natasha is like that,” he said. “It seems like what she finds passion in is arguing. Can you say that you can’t relate?”

Steve gave Sam a confused look at that, but Sam said nothing to indicate what he might have meant. Steve shook his head, letting it go, but still feeling awful.

“Devil,” he swore, with a sigh. “All of my matches for you are falling apart, even when they seem the perfect match. I cannot understand it.”

“You’re doing your best and I see it and appreciate it,” Sam said. “But even you can’t control this.”

“But Sam—” Steve started, but Sam just shook his head.

“Leave this alone, Steve,” he said and his tone left no room to argue.

Steve didn’t like hearing that and he liked worse that maybe Sam was right. He watched Natasha and Clint again, back to arguing, and he couldn’t deny that although she looked as though she was burning to shove Clint into the grass, there was a different kind of fire in her as well. The corners of her mouth kept twitching, as though she was only barely holding back another smile.

“I am usually much better than this,” Steve said to Sam. “My instincts are very sharp.”

Sam’s smile this time turned a little more amused around the corners.

“Is that so?”

Steve was in the process of formulating an answer, but then Thor loudly spilled onto the grounds and after him followed Tony and Loki, Maria and Valkyrie, and lastly, Bucky.

Bucky was relaxed here in a way he wasn’t anywhere else, except for Brookfield. He had loosened his tie, although he was still wearing his tuxedo jacket from the night before. He stood in the sunlight and ran a hand through his curls, loosening them as well. He was all long, languid lines, but kept together by a tension that Thor, who was also confident and languorous, lacked. It was a tension familiar to Steve and he could identify it and the reason—worrying about the whole company and making sure they were well-attended and well-fed—as he could identify most things and most reasons with his old friend.

Suddenly, Bucky looked over his shoulder to see Sam and Steve at the window. He cupped his eyes against the sun and gave Steve a warm and crooked smile. It filled Steve with a sense of immediate ease and of comfortable familiarity, as almost everything with Bucky did.

Bucky gestured largely to the two of them to come join.

“They’ll be lucky,” Sam said as he straightened.

“They?” Steve asked, a little dazed.

“Whoever chooses Bucky,” Sam said. “Or, I guess, whoever he chooses.”

Steve hadn’t realized Sam had been watching Bucky as well.

Steve, too, straightened. He felt at once too fond and too tight, breathless and slightly anxious in a way he could not describe. It was his mood—whatever this mood was that he was in. The problem was he could not pinpoint what exactly the mood was or where it had come from.

It was the summer doldrums, Steve decided. The hot, suffocating slow drag of summer was driving him out of his mind.

“Hey,” Bucky said, smiling warmly as Sam and Steve caught up to him.

“Hey,” Sam said, nodding to him. “Your gardens defy all reason. And common sense. I do hope you pay your gardener well.”

Bucky laughed, loud and bright, and began answering—bickering, really—with Sam. Sam’s mouth twisted up at the corner and soon there was a little arguing and a little jostling too. It wasn’t too unlike, Steve thought, Clint and Natasha. Sam and Bucky caught up with one another as they climbed up the slight slope of the grounds after the rest of the group.

Steve followed, a pace behind. He felt wretched and, if he were being honest, a little bitter.

*

There was a small hill as part of the Baron Hall grounds that served to look out over the rest of the estate and some of the land around it. The party spread out along the top, William having brought blankets and baskets of food for their picnic. The day was remarkably hot and growing hotter, so the group of them lazed about where they could, pulling at their collars and rolling things up where it was proper to do so.

There was some happy talk as they ate their way through breads and cheeses, olives and little chocolate pastries and fresh fruit, but they soon grew tired and sweaty under the afternoon sun. Natasha was the first to ignore propriety and lay down on her blanket, her hands folded across her stomach. Next to her, Maria did the same, while Valkyrie continued drinking from her glass of wine.

The chatter grew quieter and then even less, with even Tony’s endless stream of conscious talk slowing to only a few things, said in bursts, every few minutes or so. Overall, the group felt lethargic, hot and sleepy under the sun, the slow pulse of summer finally spreading over them despite all of their plans and the excitement of the last two days.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Thor said. He was laying on his back as well and rolled over onto his side to face Steve. “I am all for rest when it is this hot. But if we are any slower I will fall right asleep.”

Steve smiled at him, suppressing the reckless urge to reach forward and tuck a long strand of blond behind the other man’s ear.

“It is hot,” Steve said. “And we are, all of us, rich and lazy.”

“Most of us,” Thor said, with a wink.

Steve hid a grin and reached forward for a strawberry. Thor watched him bring it to his mouth with a wicked grin before darting his hand forward, fast as lightning, and grabbing it for himself.

“Hey!” Steve exclaimed and Thor laughed as he took a bite of what was supposed to be Steve’s. “Mean.”

“Come on,” Thor said. He finished the strawberry and put the green leaves on a crumpled napkin. “Let’s at least play a game. Or, tell me a story. Someone in this company, begin talking.”

“You should be more careful with what you wish for,” Steve laughed.

“Why’s that?” Thor looked up at him, lazily, more than a little wicked amusement about the eyes.

“Well, for instance, what if Tony started talking?” Steve said, thoughtlessly. “Then it would never stop.”

It slipped out before Steve had the chance to catch himself. One moment the words were on the tip of his tongue and the next they were said, loud enough that the shocked silence made it clear that everyone had heard.

Across from him, Loki frowned. Valkyrie raised an eyebrow sharply, and next to her, Rhodey looked nearly furious.

“I suppose that is supposed to mean something,” Tony said quietly, his face growing red.

Steve had plenty of time to regret his words and even the impact of them, so quiet and tense did everyone grow. Most of the company looked shocked, but the worst was Tony, who Steve had never seen look hurt before, and Bucky, whose jaw was tense and mouth drawn into a thin, disappointed line. He was staring at Steve as though he had never seen him before, and not in a particularly good way.

Steve swallowed thickly, his blood pounding in his ears.

“I’m sorry, I just meant—”

His voice petered out, anxiety exacerbating his nerves. His head was so muddled with embarrassment and surprise that he could not think well enough to say anything else.

He felt his breath come up short. The silence around him grew deeper, more judgmental.

Then, Tony cleared his throat.

“Right,” he said. “I guess—I mean I had always wondered what everyone thought and this is—be careful what you wish for, am I right? Or I suppose, in this case, be careful what you ask for, haha—”

Steve’s guilt spiked and though he opened his mouth, for the first time in his life, he found he could not bring himself to say anything.

“Tony,” Rhodey said, softly, but Tony shook his head.

“I mean he’s not wrong. Let’s face it, I know I’m a little—well, I mean I don’t know why he would say it if it wasn’t—he’s never said anything like that _before_ and we all know Steve isn’t shy. Or unkind. Well, usually. I mean, maybe it was a little cruel this way, but—”

Tony Stark was a lot of things: long-winded, pompous, insecure, irritating, eccentric, and high energy to the point of fault—but he was rarely at a loss for words. He was not a person who took many things very seriously, but it seemed even he could not spin what Steve had said into a joke. And why should he? There was no room for interpretation here.

Steve had been careless—so comfortable in his own internal judgments of the other man that it had made him unintentionally cruel. Tony certainly had his own faults, but he was still human and he still had feelings and it was Steve’s own arrogance that he had forgotten that might be the case.

Tony stammered himself into silence and he could not quite suppress how thin the smile he gave then was or the hurt that flashed across his features after.

“I’m suddenly in no mood to remain here,” Bucky said, suddenly. “I need to stretch my legs. Would you like to walk with me, Tony? You hadn’t finished telling me about the latest scientific paper you read.”

Tony said nothing for a moment and then, with an embarrassed breath, nodded and got to his feet.

Steve looked up at them miserably. Next to him, Thor reached for another strawberry.

“I’m feeling tired myself,” Loki said, suddenly rustling. “If you don’t mind my joining.”

“Of course not,” Bucky said and helped Loki to his feet.

They weren’t the only ones. Maria and Valkyrie too said that they needed to move a bit and Rhodey, of course, got up to follow after Tony, although not without throwing Steve a terrible look, which Steve, of course, deserved.

The group of them did not all leave together, but they left all the same and Steve stared after Bucky’s retreating back—it was straight and rigid, the way he carried himself when he was upset or truly angry.

Sam, Natasha, and Clint stayed behind, as did Thor, who was watching the departing group with a mild expression on his face.

“I feel awful,” Steve said, quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

Thor shrugged and reached for another strawberry.

“I don’t know what the fuss is about. You only said what everyone was thinking,” he said. “Anyway, Tony said it himself.”

Natasha looked over at both Steve and Thor, a look of slight distaste on her face.

“There is a time and a place for unkind thoughts, Steve,” Natasha said carefully, sharply. “And that time is not when it can best be used to humiliate someone.”

Steve’s stomach hurt. He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. Then, not looking back, he, too, left the rest of the group on top of the hill.

*

The afternoon sun began to set slowly, the light of the day giving away to the richer colors of the twilight hours. It grew cooler outside, but that wasn’t the reason that Steve was shivering. He took a few turns around the grounds before running into Loki.

“Are you leaving?” Steve asked the other man in surprise.

Loki stopped in his tracks, his hat in his hands and a flustered look to his otherwise reserved demeanor. In all of the time Steve had known him, he had never seen the other man look anything less than tempered, perhaps even cold. He was beautiful for that reason, but also uninviting in a way that Steve had never warmed to.

“Please make an excuse for me,” Loki said. His tone surprised Steve, as distressed and tight as it was.

“Is something the matter?” Steve asked. He took in the sharp, thin press of Loki’s mouth, the way that his black curls were mussed just so.

Loki shook his head. Then he twisted a glove in between his hands.

“I know you don’t like me very much,” Loki said.

“That isn’t—” Steve started, but Loki shook his head.

“That’s fine,” Loki said. “I am not in the business of being liked, Mr. Rogers.”

“Steve,” Steve mumbled.

“Steve,” Loki said. “I know I am not a warm or open person by nature. I will not get into the whys of it with you, I do not need your sympathy. But—”

“But?” Steve asked.

He looked at Loki closer—closer than he had ever paid attention to the other man—and he thought, for the first time, how much he had missed. Loki was certainly reserved and even cold to speak to, but he was not cruel, nor was he passionless. There was something about him just now, in the fields of Baron Hall, with the sun setting against his back, that showed the things that Steve had refused to see before; the soft corners of his mouth, the way his eyes, bright green, could not hide a thing he was feeling.

What Steve had mistaken as arrogance was nothing more than reservation, although for what, Steve couldn’t say.

“I am not in your position, Steve,” Loki said, looking up at Steve. “I am a ward of the Starks, educated and existing by their grace and generosity. I do not have family of my own and certainly none with any wealth or respectability. I have nothing to commend myself or support myself with but my skills and—all I can hope is to use those, in some manner, to elevate myself just enough to be comfortable. To make my own way.”

Steve looked confused, unsure why Loki was telling him this.

“I must make sure I am never expendable to the Starks,” Loki said. “While knowing all the while that all I am is expendable. Do you understand?”

Steve shook his head.

Loki exhaled in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. Steve noticed, then, that his mouth was just a little pink.

“I’m not your competitor,” Loki said. “I could never be. I’m simply trying to survive and—when you have nothing, when your entire existence and livelihood depends on luck and the generosity of others, everything is a lot more...precarious. You have to be careful. Do you understand me?”

“I am trying,” Steve said, as honestly as he could.

“I’m trying to be careful,” Loki said, softly. “But I’m not doing a very good job.”

“Loki,” Steve said.

Loki shook his head and looked down at his hands. Then he looked back up at Steve.

“He likes you,” Loki said, softly. “That’s good. That’s...for the best. I’m happy for you both.”

“Loki, what—?”

“I’m trying to fix my mistakes,” Loki said to Steve, a little earnestly, maybe a little desperately. “It might be too late for that, but I’m trying. I can’t continue this way.”

“What way?” Steve asked. He was so confused that he was nearly flummoxed.

“Please,” Loki begged. “Can you make an excuse for me?”

Steve felt as though he had stumbled, accidentally, onto something that was not meant for him. He didn’t know what to say or what to do or, indeed, how to process it all. But maybe that was beside the point. After everything that had happened today, perhaps the point was that Steve needed to let others have their secrets, their quirks and flaws and graces.

“I will...tell them you were exhausted,” Steve said. “Please, take my carriage.”

Loki nodded, looking incredibly relieved and even more grateful.

“Thank you,” he said.

Steve nodded as Loki hurried away from him, down the lawn and toward the entrance. Steve’s carriage was already waiting. Loki spoke to the driver and the two of them looked back toward Steve.

Steve nodded at them and the driver nodded back. Loki got into the cab and the two of them pulled out from Baron Hall, Steve watching and feeling mystified and unsettled about the whole situation.

  
He caught Bucky near the driveway, after another carriage had left back for the city. Bucky was watching after his departing guests and turned as Steve caught his elbow, his heart hammering nervously.

“Bucky,” Steve said. He froze when Bucky stilled.

“Steve,” Bucky said and his voice was so low, so void of the usual warmth and affection that it usually carried that Steve immediately let go.

“Has everyone left?” Steve asked, after a moment.

“Not everyone,” Bucky said. His eyes lingered on Steve and then he looked away. It was so dismissive that Steve nearly reeled from how strange and unhappy it made him feel.

“Thank you,” Steve tried again, his voice unsteady. “For having us all. Everyone was quite impressed by the...hospitality.”

Bucky said nothing to this and Steve’s sense of dread increased.

“Is your mother in?” he asked. “I should say goodbye.”

Bucky’s mouth tightened and when he finally looked back at Steve, his expression was so foreign, so reserved, that Steve almost regretted calling his attention back to him.

“She’s resting,” Bucky said. “I’ll give her your well wishes.”

Bucky turned to go and Steve panicked.

“Buck, wait! I—” Steve started and then stopped. He swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why—”

“What’re you apologizing to me for?” Bucky asked him then. He met Steve’s eyes this time and it was almost worse than avoiding him altogether. It was much easier to ignore how disappointed he looked when Steve didn’t have to stare into the face of that disappointment.

“Bucky, it was hot and I was tired and—”

“That’s your excuse? We were _all_ of us hot and tired,” Bucky snapped. “Did you hear anyone else say such unkind things to another member of the party? To someone who is supposed to be a friend?”

“Tony—” Steve started and immediately snapped his mouth shut when Bucky’s eyes flashed.

“Tony is a lot of things, Steve, but do _not_ deny that he is a friend of ours. Or, at least, friendly with us. He invites you to every occasion. He opens his home to you. He thinks of you highly—frankly, more highly than you deserve to be thought of right now.”

That stung. It felt like a slap across the face and Steve inhaled sharply at it.

“That is unkind,” Steve said, loudly.

“As opposed to what you said and did—that was kindly, I suppose?” Bucky said to him. Steve cringed at that.

“Tony is wealthy,” Steve said. He knew he shouldn’t defend himself, but he couldn’t help it. “He’s wealthy and he’s older than we are and if he can’t handle a little ribbing—”

“That isn’t what you did, Steve,” Bucky said and his tone softened just enough to be weary. He ran a hand through his hair and Steve watched the curls fall haphazardly over one another.

“Tony Stark is—a lot. Of course that’s true. Does he speak without thinking? Yes. Does he go on at length about things no one cares about and brag any chance he gets? Of course. And if he had people to adore him as much as you do, if he were as beloved, then I would not take as much issue—”

“But,” Steve said and Bucky did not let him continue.

“ _But_ Tony has a handful of acquaintances who tolerate him and even fewer true friends. He is a strange, eccentric older man whose wealth—as immense as it is—will not even make him easy to marry. He has only his mother and one friend to his name. He has a ward who he has no idea how to relate to and an entire industry to run that he has no real interest in.”

“I didn’t know,” Steve said, so quiet that Bucky didn’t hear.

“He is difficult and he is _lonely_. And now he cannot even count on you, a person he thought of as a friend,” Bucky said. His eyes were smoldering, his chest heaving with how upset he clearly was. “This was badly done, Steve. _Badly done_.”

  
**art:** Steve trying not to be crushed at Bucky's disappointment; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve did not often cry and he would not even now, but he could feel the desperate need to. His head hurt from emotion, his chest so tight with guilt and an overwhelming feeling of _bad_ that he thought he might have an asthma attack as he stood.

They stood in silence, Bucky’s anger and disappointment a live, heavy thing between them.

As long as they had been friends—as much as they had argued, as many times as they had bickered—Steve had never felt as though Bucky had actually been angry with him. But now Steve could not even muster the courage to look up at his face. Bucky’s voice was hard and disappointed, his mouth pressed thin, the lines of his shoulders stiff, all of the tell-tale signs of someone who could not overlook or easily forgive a trespass.

“I did not mean to,” Steve finally said, his voice barely a whisper. “It slipped—it was not my intention to hurt him, Bucky.”

“It does not have to be intentional,” Bucky said, “for it to be hurtful.”

He turned on his heels then and strode back inside Baron Hall.

Steve didn’t look up to see him go; he could not bring himself to watch how he had so offended and destroyed his oldest, closest friendship.

Sam, Natasha, and Clint finally came back out from the manor, ready to go home.

“Are you all right?” Sam asked quietly, touching Steve’s shoulder.

It was too kind and too ill-deserved. Steve shook his head and then nodded.

  
He sat by himself the whole way back, not speaking, barely breathing, feeling as though he had ruined absolutely everything.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ I have such rich headcanons for all of the side ships, I wish I could write it all in detail into the fic. Unfortunately, this isn't any of their story and so I can only tell what Steve knows and sees, but if you would like to know anything more about any of them, I would be DELIGHTED to tell you more.
> 
> \+ Okay, but also imagine this: Maria Hill and Valkyrie lesbian suit-wearing power couple in the 1890 Gilded Era. Thank you.


	10. X.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are perfect to me,” Sarah Rogers smiled. 
> 
> “I’m not perfect, Ma, I’m—” Steve started, but again shushed him. 
> 
> “You are my son and I am allowed to say you are perfect,” she said. She tapped Steve on the nose. “But, you are foolish, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end, it's making me have a whole feeling! Much like Steve, who is very dumb and might even experience two this chapter.

**PART X.**

Everything felt as though it fell apart after that.

By the time Steve mustered up the courage to call Bucky in an attempt to mend their rift, William picked up the call and informed Steve that Bucky had gone away to visit Miss Rebecca all the way up in Hyde Park and would be gone for at least a month. Steve had hung up the call, feeling wretched and a little heartsore, knowing he almost certainly had something to do with it and that in any other circumstance, Bucky would have come by or at least called before leaving for so long.

Bucky was not the only one who seemingly abandoned Steve. Thor left a few days after the incident to visit his mother at their Newport estate, Valhalla, although Clint told Steve that it had something to do with Odin and how poorly he was faring.

Steve missed Thor, but he could forget him and his bright presence easily enough, as someone who had just come into his life and livened it up a bit. Bucky’s absence, however, he slowly found that he could not abide, and especially knowing he was angry and upset and hurt with Steve all the while.

Steve had attempted to visit Tony a few days after the incident at Baron Hall, but that too, he was not particularly successful in doing.

“I’m sorry,” Jarvis greeted Steve at the door when he tried. “I’m afraid Mr. Stark is feeling rather unwell today. I will tell him you called.”

Behind Jarvis, Steve could see Rhodey’s shape.

“Will you tell him I—well, these are for him,” Steve said, handing Jarvis a box of assorted foods and confectioneries—cookies and breads and jams and candies—that he had picked up from his favorite French bakery. “Tell him they are from Steve Rogers and—” Steve swallowed lightly. “—that Brookfield would be delighted to welcome him once he feels better.”

Jarvis’s expression wasn’t exactly kind, but did soften a bit as he took the box.

“Of course, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “I will let Mr. Stark know.”

  
By the beginning of August, Steve was so melancholy that the only source of good feeling in his life was Sam. Sam had not abandoned him and Sam did not look at him as though he was the worst person he knew. Sam, however, was running out of time.

“Uncle is doing much better,” he said as he and Steve stood atop their favorite bridge in Central Park.

Steve had out an old heel of bread that he was breaking and scattering to the ducks lazily floating in the water.

“That...is good,” Steve said, cautiously.

“He can walk mostly fine now,” Sam said, nodding. “There’s very little use for me left to him.”

Steve frowned.

“I don’t mean that to belittle myself,” Sam laughed lightly, reading Steve’s mind and knocking their shoulders together. “Only that I was brought here for the purpose of helping him move around and care for himself and as he is doing that all by himself these days, I mostly do nothing except go to the cook to ask for dinner.”

Steve didn’t like what Sam wasn’t saying. His spirits, already so low, dipped further.

“Sam, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I have made a mess of everything. I was supposed to be spending my efforts helping you to find someone and I have done nothing but insult good friends and cast others away instead. I am useless even when I am well-intentioned.”

Sam said nothing for a moment, but then pressed his shoulder more firmly against Steve’s.

“Steve, do you know the first thing I thought when we met?”

“Why does that small fellow look as though he is about to faint next to me on the car?” Steve asked and Sam smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “But after that, I thought, this is someone who is worth getting to know. There was just something about you—disastrous, maybe, but warm and kind. And do you know, I have never once thought otherwise.”

Steve ducked his head, feeling a comfortable, familiar sort of warmth in the middle of his stomach. It was accompanied by a sensation that he was grown quite used to lately—guilt.

“And look how that turned out for you,” he said. “Here you are nearly a year later without fulfillment of the promise I made to you all the time back then.”

“I am not friends with you because you promised to find me a bride, Steve,” Sam said, with a laugh. It was not mocking; it was comfortable, friendly. It made Steve feel as though things could never be wrong between the two of them, so long as they maintained this easy affection and respect for one another.

“Then?” Steve asked, petulantly.

“I’m friends with you because you have a big, generous heart, even when you don’t realize it,” Sam said. He broke off a piece of bread from the chunk he held and threw it into the water. “If I can be honest—?”

“Speak freely,” Steve said with a sigh.

Sam smiled.

“Steve, you are impulsive and stubborn and overly confident and know absolutely nothing,” Sam said.

Steve nodded, glumly.

“ _But_ , even so, you will do anything in your power to make what you feel is right and good—above all, for those you love, but even for those you don’t really know. That is a rare characteristic in someone, especially someone as wealthy and privileged as you are.”

“Do you mean spoiled?” Steve looked at Sam wryly.

“I am not Bucky to scold you so,” Sam said, with a kind expression. “What you said and did that day—it was unkind, sure. It was shocking because it was out of character for you to hurt someone in such a thoughtless manner. But that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It just means you’re...a person. A human. Someone who is capable of making mistakes. Does that make sense?”

Steve swallowed, feeling a mixture of confused emotions. He nodded.

“You’re not perfect, Steve,” Sam said softly, looking at his friend. “And that is perfectly fine.”

  
**art:** Sam, embracing and comforting Steve on the bridge at Central Park; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve couldn’t help himself, then. He wrapped his arms around Sam from the side, surprising his friend only for the length it took him to soften and embrace Steve back.

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Sam,” Steve said. “I cannot possibly let you go to Chicago. I’m sorry if that makes me selfish.”

Sam hummed gently. Then he patted Steve on the back before letting him go.

“Speaking of,” Sam said. There was something a little nervous about him now.

“What?” Steve said. “You can tell me.”

“I was thinking.” Sam turned back toward the water, resting his arms on top of the wooden railing again. “I don’t want to speak out of turn or beyond my rank, but—”

“We are the same,” Steve insisted. “There is nothing separating our rank.”

Sam tilted his head and gave Steve a wry smile.

“There is someone I’ve been thinking about,” Sam said. “Our stations aren’t at all matched, really. They are...much above me, but, well, I think we have a strong connection. It’s possible that they—I don’t know, do you think someone so far above me could return my affections? Or is that folly?”

“What are you talking about?” Steve asked, tone immediately changed. “Anyone would be lucky to have your affections.”

“It’s just that I don’t have much to offer,” Sam said. “You know my situation.”

“You have _everything_ to offer. There is no one better than you,” Steve said, fiercely. “Don’t speak nonsense.”

Sam laughed again, shaking his head gratefully.

“You always talk me up so.”

“I am not saying anything that isn’t true,” Steve grumbled next to him. “Is it...someone I know?”

“Yeah,” Sam said slowly.

Steve wracked his brains before remembering how Sam and Thor had spent the entire drive home that terrible day talking. They had barely even stopped to catch their breaths, Thor laughing louder and longer than he had all day.

Steve thought about his own confused feelings for just a moment before brushing them aside.

“I think it is a perfect match,” Steve said, with a smile.

“Yeah?” Sam asked.

In truth, Thor was beautiful and lively and he and Steve had a great deal of fun together, but it had been over a month now since his departure and Steve had survived just fine. He had not even thought to write him a letter, not even when he was already writing and sending Bucky half a dozen unanswered missives.

Whatever feelings Steve had had for Thor were genuine, but they had not been so strong that he thought they should stand in the way of Thor and Sam, especially if Sam had true affections for the other man. This would, actually, be the perfect ending—a better one than he could have planned himself.

“I am very happy for you,” Steve said warmly and knocked their shoulders together again. He upended the rest of the crumbs from his hands and wiped his palms on his jacket. “Truly. I could not be happier. You must tell him how you feel.”

“That makes me feel nervous,” Sam laughed. “Moreso even than when you attempted to matchmake me with Natasha and Maria.”

Steve gave Sam a crooked smile, meant to convey that _yes, we have all learned our lessons there._

“That is a great sign then!” he insisted. “Oh Sam, this is so happy. I am truly, genuinely so pleased for you! I hope we will attend a wedding in the fall—that is exactly what we need now.”

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, but that was only because his cheeks were warming, flushing a dark pink that Steve was delighted to see.

“No refrigerated cars for you, my dear friend,” Steve said and slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders the way Bucky often did with him. “Only a wedding and a lifetime of merriment with me, here, in the greatest city on Earth.”

*

It did not matter how many letters Steve sent, they all went unanswered.

Eventually, in the second week of August, he gave up sending them altogether.

He was crouched over his desk in the lamplight, morosely putting words to paper when he heard a light knock on the door.

> _Dear Bucky,_
> 
> _I am sure I am the last person you wish to hear from now. That, you have made abundantly clear. But every day that passes sets me more and more on edge._
> 
> _I cannot apologize to you more than I have. I have apologized to Tony and even he has accepted it. It took two more boxes of confections than I thought it might, but who can say no to Otto’s apple hand pies?_
> 
> _I have learned my lesson, if only you would accept my apology as well and let me explain myself better._
> 
> _~~Have I really so ruined our entire friendship, with one unkind comment? Did I reveal something you did not know about me or something you wish was false about me?~~ _
> 
> _I hope Hyde Park is agreeing with you and that Becca and her new husband are entertaining you properly. I know how terribly bored you get without some form of entertainment. And when you are bored, you get up to all manners of mischief. I learned all that I know from you, after all._
> 
> _~~I have spent my entire life looking up to you~~ _
> 
> _~~I miss you, dear friend, please will you not give me another chance~~ _

Steve let out a frustrated groan, crumpled his letter and threw it to the side of the room.

  
**art:** Steve, missing Bucky, and writing him letters at his desk; **art by:** nalonzooo

“Darling,” his mother said softly, coming in and closing the door behind her. “You haven’t eaten lunch or dinner today. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“I’m not hungry,” Steve said, frowning.

The truth was, he had been in such depression that he was barely eating at all now. He could not figure it out, only that he felt so terrible all the time and the only thing that helped at all was to write these unanswered and now unsent letters that he knew his closest friend would never see.

“Are you writing again?” Sarah asked. She sat herself carefully on Steve’s bed.

“I’m not going to send them,” Steve said, dully. He put his fountain pen down, the nib staining a clean sheaf of paper. “I just needed to—”

His mother made a kind, understanding noise. She knew, of course. Steve had written Bucky so frantically for a week that she had grown suspicious and then it had tumbled out of him—the entire story, even the shameful parts. And then he had to tell her that Bucky had left without a word, that he had absconded to his sister’s just to avoid Steve and how upset he was with him.

“Come here,” Sarah said and patted the bed next to her.

Steve felt petulant about it, but he also felt like a person who did not know what he was doing anymore; a child who needed his mother.

He got up and crossed the room to sit next to her on the bed. Immediately he leaned into her warmth and she wrapped an arm around him, as she used to when he was younger and had scraped his knees or had annoyed his father, by asking relentlessly about when Bucky could come play, into scolding him.

“You’ve had a trying summer,” Sarah Rogers said, pressing a kiss into her son’s hair. “I have never seen my darling boy so low in spirits.”

That was one way of putting it. Steve could not find one word to settle on to describe how he felt—terrible and wretched and awful and melancholy and depressive and heartsore. Mostly heartsore.

“I have ruined everything,” Steve said. “I did not even know I was doing so, but I did it anyway.”

His mother hummed soothingly, rubbing a circle into his arm. It had been so long since Sarah Rogers had given any comfort to her son that when Steve sighed, he felt a part of himself exhale that he had held onto for far too long. It wasn’t her fault; his mother had nearly had a breakdown after his father had passed, and she had since been nervous and skittish and far too anxious. She was always there for him, loving and kind, but often he felt he needed to care for her as opposed to the other way around.

“You are lovely, did you know that?” his mother said.

“Ma,” Steve whined, but she shushed him.

“I know it hasn’t been easy, caring for me,” she said. “But you’ve done so, far earlier than you should have. Your father passed away and you had to become stronger and steadier much faster than anyone else has had to. Do not think it goes unnoticed.”

Steve pulled away a little, just to look his mother in the face.

“You are perfect to me,” Sarah Rogers smiled.

“I’m not perfect, Ma, I’m—” Steve started, but again shushed him.

“You are my son and I am allowed to say you are perfect,” she said. She tapped Steve on the nose. “But, you are foolish, my love.”

“ _Ma!_ ”

Sarah laughed.

“I’m your mother, I can call you perfect and foolish in the same breath. It is my right as someone who labored to bring you to life.”

Steve grumbled, turning a little pink.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, a little more gently.

Steve shook his head. Then he decided that wasn’t right either. He struggled to find the words to describe how he was feeling—how dejected and restless, how bored and unmoored.

“It feels like everything has gone a little grey,” he said to his mother after a few moments. “It feels like...although the sun is out, there is a cloud that follows me everywhere, casting me in shade. My chest aches. I cannot get happy, no matter how hard I try.”

Sarah looked at her son thoughtfully.

“Is this about James?” she asked. “And how he hasn’t written?”

Steve’s throat felt tight, his chest heavy with that same, grey feeling.

“I think, perhaps, you might be a bit heartsick,” Sarah said.

“Heartsick?” Steve asked, looking up at her in confusion.

Sarah smiled at him, kind, but amused too.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?”

“Figured what out?” Steve asked, frowning.

Sarah laughed, not unkindly, shaking her head, and pressed another kiss to his forehead. Then she got up from the bed.

“Figured what out, Ma?”

“I’ll have Florence send you your supper,” she said, turning around. “Don’t forget to eat.”

“Ma? _Ma!_ ” Steve called, but his mother had already strolled out the door.

Feeling barely any better than before and even more confused than he began with, he went back to his desk, sat down, and picked up his pen again.

With that same grey, tight feeling squeezing in his chest, he began again:

> _Dear Bucky,_
> 
> _I miss you terribly, my dear friend._

*

By the middle of August, even Sam had grown tired of Steve’s morose behavior. Steve hadn’t told him what was ailing him, that he caught himself looking for Bucky everywhere he went, even when it was impossible that he would be there, or that he missed his friend enough that every time they received a call, he looked so forward to hearing from him that he was disappointed when the call turned out to be from anyone else.

“I can’t stand to see you like this any longer,” Sam said, calling in at Brookfield one day in the middle of the month. “I’m going to a breadline and I’d like you to come with me.”

“A breadline? To—”

“Help them,” Sam said, with a laugh.

“Is that something people do?” Steve blinked.

“Yes, Steve. Shockingly, money is not the only kind of philanthropy one can offer,” Sam said. He put his hat back on his head, wiping sweat from his brows. “It does the soul good to help those less fortunate.”

Steve had, admittedly, never thought of volunteering his time in such a manner, although he supposed he knew, in a peripheral kind of way, that there were societies that helped distribute food to immigrant and poor communities.

“Will they let me help?” Steve asked, hesitantly.

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Enough excuses,” he said. “Let us go do some good. I am positive it will help you feel better.”

  
The breadline Sam volunteered at was close to the tenements of the Lower East Side, inside a wooden building that looked as though a particularly strong gust of wind could knock it over on a bad day. There was already a line out the door, men and women and not a few children, holding hands and hiding their faces, waiting for a hot meal from inside.

Steve felt awkward as he and Sam walked past them, uncomfortable in an almost physical way, unlike anything he had ever felt before. Sam, on the other hand, smiled at near everyone and even stopped once or twice to talk to people who, astoundingly, knew him.

“How did you know that couple?” Steve asked as they slipped inside.

“I come here once a week,” Sam said, with a smile. “You get to know the regulars.”

Steve wasn’t sure how that made him feel—both that Sam had been doing something so good and honorable with his time without Steve knowing and that there were people hungry enough to be coming to a breadline multiple times a week, every week.

They slipped back past the crowded, smelly dining area to the back kitchen, where a man with a big, bushy mustache and a jovial smile greeted them.

“Mr. Wilson, always a pleasure,” the man said. His voice was loud, big and warm. He had a badge on his shirt that simply said HEAD. “You’ve brought company this time, I see. Is this—?”

“This is Steve Rogers,” Sam said, introducing Steve. “Steve, this is Riley Jones. He volunteers with the St. Andrew’s Society. Runs this whole damn show.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Steve said. He reached a hand out, but Riley Jones didn’t seem to take to that. Instead, he wrapped Steve in a large, friendly bear hug.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “We’ve heard about you for so long that we thought maybe you didn’t exist at all.”

Riley let Steve go, all pink-faced, and turned back to Sam, who was grinning.

“Is he up to the task, Wilson?”

“There isn’t a challenge Steve hasn’t met head on,” Sam said.

“Splendid! The bread just finished in the oven, you two can start easy. The loaves need to be split into quarters and then a slice next to every empty bowl.”

Riley went away to help dole out stew in the front lines while Sam showed Steve to the part of the kitchen they were tasked to work. The large, brick oven was filled with loaves of dark bread and on a wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, there were rows and rows of tin plates and bowls.

Sam took a few minutes to show Steve the best way to get the piping hot bread out of the oven and cut it so that the slices were even.

“There were so many people out there,” Steve said after they had been quietly slicing and plating the bread for a few minutes. “Are they...they’re all regulars?”

“Not all of them,” Sam said. “A lot of them for sure. Some of them are having a hard week now, or a hard month. Mr. O’Leary—you saw him outside, with the bushy red beard and the shaved head, well he has a wife and five kids and he can’t hold a job to save his life. So they’re back here a lot.”

“Why?” Steve asked, uncertainly. “Is he not a hard worker?”

Sam stopped, mid-slice, and looked up at Steve. He looked...thoughtful, as though trying to find the best way to put this.

“It’s not a matter of being a hard worker, sometimes,” he said. “You can be the hardest worker around and still lose your job for any reason—your boss doesn’t take a liking to you, or you’re sick one too many times, or you see someone picking on someone else and you stick up for them and the manager doesn’t like that behavior so much.”

Steve stared at Sam, mouth a little askew.

“But that’s—not fair.”

Sam’s smile was as tight as the look in his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “A lot’s not fair. A lot of those men out there, Steve—they’ll work until their fingers bleed. They’ll work until every muscle aches in their body and their backs are bent and their wrists don’t quite work right anymore. They’ll work so many hours that they won’t see their wives or kids for days, maybe sometimes weeks. And they still might not have enough to afford a place to live or a way to feed their family.”

That made Steve feel—well, nauseous if he were being honest.

“I thought,” he started and stopped.

Somehow, hearing that and seeing all of the hungry, tired, worn down faces outside, he couldn't bring himself to finish what he was going to say, which was, _I thought people who needed help from the church did so because they were lazy._

It was a shameful thought now, suddenly. He felt his stomach twist.

“I know what you thought,” Sam said, gently. “Most wealthy people do.”

Sam said it like it was a bad thing. And, Steve thought, sliding another piece of bread onto a plate, maybe it was.

“Do they all live in tenements?” he asked.

Sam shook his head.

“Not all of them. But a lot of them. They do what they can to get by, best as any of us.”

Steve swallowed and nodded. He sliced another loaf of bread in silence.

“What about—” Steve started and then stopped. Then he mustered the courage to say it out loud. “Unions? Are they a part of them?”

  
**art:** Steve, nervously asking about unions; **art by:** nalonzooo

Sam put a last slice of bread on a plate and rubbed his hands together to brush off crumbs. When he smiled at Steve this time, it was partly amused and partly proud.

“I think a lot of them want to be,” he said. “A lot of them are scared to be. For good reason. There’s a lot of powerful people out there who don't want the people to be in unions, because they’re scared of what might happen if workers band together. They’re scared of what will happen if they can’t work people to the bone anymore.”

“And what do you think?” Steve said, carefully. “About them?”

Sam took two plates, balancing the bowls carefully, to get them out to Riley and the rest of the guys volunteering.

“I think people deserve to not have to die just to work,” Sam said. “And they deserve to get paid enough to put a roof over their heads, and food in their family’s mouths.”

Steve watched Sam turn around and bump the door with his hip to bring the plates out front. He felt rattled by the whole thing—the conversation and the breadline, the people he had seen, and the people he knew were waiting to be fed, who would come today and then again tomorrow and then the day after that because while he, Steve, had a whole estate to himself, there were people down here who couldn’t even afford a hot meal.

It wasn’t a bad rattling; on the contrary.

It was a good one—an affirming one.

Steve had never considered himself a pro-union guy, but, by the end of this, he thought as he donned an apron to help Sam and Riley serve stew out front, maybe he could be.

*

They finished their shift a few hours later. By that time, Steve’s skin was slick with sweat and his back was aching, as was his wrist. He smelled like stew and sweat and he felt so grimy he could not imagine ever feeling clean again.

“How was it?” Sam grinned as they got on an electric streetcar back uptown.

“Exhausting,” Steve said, but he was grinning too. He felt good—in fact, he felt better than he had in literal ages. “But good. I—thank you, Sam. I can’t thank you enough. I think I needed that, in more ways than I knew.”

“Like I said,” Sam said. “It’s a city of two cities. You can’t see that unless you get out of your own head for a bit.”

Steve nodded and leaned his head against the glass windowpane. The gentle bumping of the streetcar was lulling him to sleep when Sam said, “So, uh. I wrote him a letter.”

Steve blinked rapidly and turned.

“Him—” he started and then. “Oh! _Him._ ”

“Yeah,” Sam chuckled nervously. “Not a huge confession or anything, but just, something. He wrote back and we’ve written each other a few times. I think—it could really be something. I think this could be what gets me to stay, Steve.”

“Sam,” Steve said, eyes wide. “Really? Sam, that’s incredible.”

Sam smiled, blushing a little. He ducked his head, scratching the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t expect it. Honestly, I didn’t even know if I could tolerate him at first.”

Steve chuckled, feeling terribly pleased for his friend. Thor certainly made a strong first impression.

“He is a lot to handle all at once,” he said. “But he’s so charming and funny—oh I’m so happy for you! How is his father doing, do you know?”

“His father?” Sam asked, a little confused.

“Oh, you know,” Steve said, with a stretch. “Odin’s been ill for some time, that isn't a secret. Isn't that why Thor went to his mother’s, to tell her and bring her back?”

“Thor?” Sam blinked at him. He blinked again, his expression clearing. “Oh, Steve. I’m not talking about Thor. I’m talking about Bucky.”

Steve was still grinning when he processed what Sam had said. Then, immediately, the smile slid off his face.

“Bucky?” Steve said sharply, shocked. “You were talking about Bucky?”

“Well, yes,” Sam said. His easy expression shuttered a bit, his brows drawing closer together. Suddenly, he looked uncertain.

“I thought,” Steve said, spluttering. “Thor—”

“Thor?” Sam said. “Why would I care about Thor?”

“You and he were, I thought the two of you—”

“Thor is a decent guy, I’m sure, but I don’t have a thing in common with him,” Sam said, blinking. “Bucky and I have been talking since the dance and—Steve, what’s wrong?”

Steve didn’t know what his face was doing, but he was certain it was nothing good. He grew as pale as he felt, his heart slamming in his chest, his chest tight with anxiety—no, a little panic. He felt as though he could not breathe, as though he was having an asthma attack.

“Damn,” Sam cursed, immediately worrying. “Do you have one of your cigarettes? Steve?”

Steve nodded, then shook his head. He was so surprised, he couldn’t think.

Luckily, Sam was quick on his feet. He leaned over, rubbing Steve’s back slowly, coaxing him through the worst of it until he could take in air smoothly again.

“Damn,” Steve said. “Devil. I’m so sorry. That was—I don’t know what happened.”

“You looked like you were going to pass out,” Sam said. “Is it because I said I had feelings for Barnes?”

Steve’s face flushed this time.

“Is that a bad idea?” Sam asked slowly. His hand was still on Steve’s back. “Are you two—”

“Do you know of his...affections for you?” Steve asked. “Did he...reciprocate?”

He couldn’t think about all of the unsent letters; all of the unanswered ones. All this time, Bucky had been writing back to Sam.

“I think so,” Sam said. He didn’t sound entirely certain, but it sounded sure enough to Steve’s ears. “We haven’t said anything...explicitly, in so many words, but, the tone of the letters. I...think so.”

Steve felt distinctly ill. His blood was pounding in his ears. He needed to be outside, somewhere else. He needed to be alone.

The car, thankfully, came to a gentle halt at his stop.

“That’s a—that’s wonderful, Sam,” Steve said. “Really, I’m so happy for you. Thrilled. You’ll have to tell me everything, later and—oh I must go. Thank you for everything. I’ll have to go and tell Ma about my entire day. After a bath, of course!”

“Steve,” Sam called, but Steve was already hurrying across the car and down the steps.

He didn’t look back and he didn’t hear Sam call to him again.

When he got inside the house, he retched into the nearest wastebasket.

*

Later, he would blame it on the heat of the day, on how much he had worked, and the light asthma attack that he had had earlier. He would never blame it on Sam and when his mother asked, concerned, he excused himself, claiming exhaustion.

Still, sleep was slow to come that night, his chest ached so, and when he couldn’t bear it any longer, he rose fitfully from bed to sit at his desk again, a fresh sheet of paper, fresh ink, and another letter he would never send.

*

A week later, Peggy called on him.

“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you,” she said. She looked comfortable and happy in a new, almost athletic outdoor outfit, the latest European fashion, with a long white skirt, cinched at the waist with a dark belt, a slim-fitting navy coat, and a bowtie at her throat. “I thought we might walk. Or visit the Met? That always cheers you up.”

“Who told you—” Steve started and then paused.

Peggy smiled.

“Just because you have forgotten me, does not mean Mrs. Rogers has. Come.”

  
The two of them walk along in silence for a while, their pace slower than usual. Steve felt low and Peggy did not press him to talk, although she did take his arm in hers. Despite everything, it helped him feel a little better.

“Can I be free with you, old friend?” she said as they crossed the street toward the park.

“Of course, Peggy,” Steve said. “You know you don't have to hide with me.”

Peggy squeezed his arm and smiled.

“I have a guess as to the specific nature of your melancholy,” she said. “Will you allow me it?”

Steve hesitated for a moment, but Peggy was one of his oldest friends, a sister more than anything else. If anyone was to name his heartache, it should be her.

“Please.”

They strolled up half a block before she spoke again.

“I can only assume that, despite all of your balking and your protestation, you have found yourself subject to that which you have always spurned.”

Steve said nothing.

“And in doing so, you have opened yourself up to a hurt the likes of which you have never felt before and certainly have never invited.”

Steve frowned. His chest _did_ ache, and not because of his asthma.

“It will hurt,” Peggy said. “For some time. Love—affection always does. But that does not make it not worth it, Steve. I have hoped our entire lives you would one day understand what that might mean. And when you brought me and Angie together, I hoped further that one day you would find your other half. I said that to you, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Steve said. He came to a stop and turned to face Peggy.

“I’m sorry,” she said, plainly—and she looked it, sincerely. “It cannot have been easy to have found out. I admit I was shocked when I learned of the engagement—after how he was acting so close with you at the dance!”

Steve felt his heart come to an absolute halt in his chest. He felt cold all over, immediately, the color draining from his face.

“Engagement?” he croaked.

His mind, racing, barely took in Peggy’s distressed face.

“Wait, you didn’t know?”

“I—no,” Steve said, stunned. “He didn’t tell me. He hasn’t written me in—”

Then, heartbroken, “How could he have not told me?”

“Oh Steve, I’m so sorry,” Peggy said and grasped him in an embrace. “I thought you knew! I thought that was why you had been so—oh, the news about Odin must have been shocking enough, and then to hear about Thor—”

Even through the immense distress he felt, through the tangle of his thoughts, Steve paused, frowning.

“Thor? Wait, what about Thor?”

Peggy also paused and then, after a moment, pulled back.

“Odin’s illness and his passing and Thor’s—” Peggy looked utterly confused. “Is that not what you were talking about?”

“Odin passed away?” Steve stared at her blankly. “What about Thor?”

“Thor and Loki are engaged, Steve,” Peggy said, shaking her head. “They had just been waiting for Odin to pass, as he very much did not approve of their relationship—I thought, you and Thor—”

“Thor and I were never,” Steve started and stopped. His head was spinning from the intensity of all of the emotions he had felt in so short a time. “I need to sit, please.”

Peggy found them a stone bench and they both sat.

“Did I read you wrong? I thought you both rather flirtatious and it was clear to me—and to everyone, really—how enamored you both were with one another.”

Steve pressed a hand to his chest, where his heart was racing, and stared into the street as a horse carriage went by.

“I think...I thought I had affection for him at some point,” Steve admitted. “He is handsome and funny and we got on so well.”

“That’s what I thought,” Peggy said.

“But I made peace with that some time ago, I think,” Steve said. “Thor does not have my affections, Peggy. You needn’t worry about my broken heart.”

“Oh,” Peggy said, her face lighting in relief. “Oh, I’m so happy to hear that. I was stunned when I heard and my first thought was for you and I hadn’t heard from you in so long and Mrs. Rogers said you hadn’t left the house in a week so I naturally assumed—”

Steve smiled at her, leaning over to place a grateful kiss to her cheek. Peggy Carter was one of the most wondrous people in his life. He would always love her and be appreciative to have her there.

“Thor and I are merely friends, nothing more,” he said. “But he’s...engaged to Loki? I—how?”

Peggy shook her head, as though mystified. She rested back on her hands, stretching her legs out in front of her. The sun caught on the white of her skirt, making it all glow a bit.

“Well, I don’t like to gossip, of course.”

  
**art:** Peggy, in her new, more relaxed European fashion, ready to gossip; **art by:** nalonzooo

That made Steve grin.

“Of course not.”

“From what I understand, the two grew up near one another in Rhode Island,” Peggy said. “That’s where Thor’s mother lives and Loki lived there for some time with a Stark relative, as he was brought up. They’ve known each other since they were children.”

Steve saw in his mind’s eye a smaller Loki chasing after a taller, older, more handsome and more intelligent and wildly funnier Thor. He watched them laugh together, Loki catching Thor by the elbow and Thor beaming down at him, never too far, never leaving him behind.

Slowly, the vision changed, and Thor suddenly had dark curls and Loki, suspiciously, had unruly blond hair.

“They parted ways and then met again while Loki was in Portland and Thor was sent there on company business. I believe they grew close again there and then fell in love.” Peggy said warmly. “From what I hear, they seemed deeply, deliriously in love. It was well known to their friends in Portland. But their positions were so different and Odin such a cold, strict man.”

Steve couldn’t imagine, although now his conversation with Loki made that much more sense.

 _I am simply trying to survive and when you have nothing, when your entire existence and livelihood depends on luck and the generosity of others, everything is a lot more...precarious. You have to be careful._ Loki had said to him. _I am trying to fix my mistakes._

“Odin threatened to disinherit Thor if he continued their relationship, so they waited. Well, I suppose Thor asked Loki to wait. I assume some of his flirtation with you was—” Peggy looked carefully at Steve, but he understood.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I cannot imagine being in that situation—to be forced to choose between family and love.”

“It’s not happy tidings that Odin has passed, of course,” Peggy said. “But I don’t believe he was much by the way of a warm and kind father anyway.”

“His passing allows Thor to make whatever decision he wants, without losing everything that was meant for him,” Steve said.

Peggy nodded.

“I hope they will be happy,” she said.

“I imagine they will be,” Steve said, suddenly remembering—with much better clarity—the way Thor had always looked after Loki and the way Loki had, during that last conversation with Steve, looked so devastated.

“Well, I must admit I’m much happier knowing your heart has been spared,” Peggy said cheerfully. “I would hate to have to wish ill on another couple’s happiness because they hurt my dear friend.”

That made something pang, deep within Steve’s chest. There was a feeling there, buried deep, but growing closer and closer to the surface. At the right angles and in certain spots of sunlight, if Steve was not careful, he would see it all laid bare before him—everything he had not realized before.

“The artwork will be that much better to peruse now, don’t you think?” Peggy said and got up. She offered Steve her arm again and Steve, getting up, took it.

  
They spent the rest of the afternoon at the Met. It was a light time, mostly happy, and Steve only thought of Bucky every other painting they stopped and looked at.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The AMAZING art of Steve at his desk was inspired by a real (!) [1890s illustration made for Pride and Prejudice](https://archive.org/details/prideprejudice00aust/page/n6/mode/2up) by Hugh Thomson. Leave Nikki so much love for this one!!!


	11. XI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m heartsick,” he told his mother, that day, pressed both palms to his chest. “I am heartsick over Bucky.”

**PART XI.**

**END OF SUMMER.**

The last week of August was just as hot as the beginning, but it brought with it some sense of relief. At least soon it would be September and even if the weather would not relent, it would feel as though the season had changed, summer slipping into the more temperate tones of autumn.

It had felt like an interminably long summer, one that had not brought with it anything Steve could put to letter and really say he had enjoyed. In truth, Steve felt older now than his four-and-twenty years and he wondered what the last remaining months of the year would hold for him—for all of them. So much had already happened in such a short time that he could not contemplate what more _could_ happen, but also did not care to tempt fate by guessing. He was tired. He grew weary of the heat, weary of the sporadic company, but, most importantly, weary of the ache he carried with him everywhere he went, unable to be eased even by the kind words of the people he cared for the most, or their smiles, or their company.

In truth—if he were going to be truthful with himself—he craved only the company of one person, a person who had always been available to him before and who now, for more weeks than he could remember them ever having been apart before, was out of his reach.

Steve could not take the truth of it—that perhaps this was their end, that not only would Bucky not forgive him, but that he would choose Sam over him and not at least tell Steve that he had done so. It was difficult not to begrudge Sam his good fortune, not because he wished Sam any less happiness, but because it had taken Steve this long—this honestly, stupidly long—to realize that this, too, was his happiness.

He was not sure when it had dawned on him.

Perhaps it had been the fifth or sixth letter that he had written, when Steve had written his name across the top, a name after _Dear_ or _Dearest_ or _My dear friend,_ and realized that although the words said slightly different things, they meant the same thing, to him; that the words meant what they _said_ ; that they were not simply a way to begin a letter, but a specific way to begin it, where _Dear_ followed by the person’s name meant that he was, in fact, dear to him, Steve.

Or maybe it was the way in which he had begun to cross out thoughts too intimate to put to paper, scratches across lines that spoke too freely and said too much, and then, soon, letters he could not send at all because they were more revealing than he meant for them to be.

Perhaps it had been sitting by the phone, ringing a house he knew was empty, but calling anyway, hoping for someone to pick up, a specific someone, or waiting by the stand for one phone call, also from a specific someone, or expecting Vernon to bring the post in, wishing for one answer—just a single one.

Or maybe it was walking through the Met, leaning close on Peggy’s arm and studying the new paintings brought to the museum, wishing he were leaning on someone else’s arm instead or, at least, wishing that he were closeby enough that Steve could share his thoughts with him. Undoubtedly Bucky would have rolled his eyes, bickered with him, and called him a snob—at a minimum.

That was also something Steve realized, too late.

That bickering, that argumentation, could be a form of passion in and of itself. No one else would push back against him so, no one else would look him in the eyes and call him a _brat_ or spoiled or snobbish or simply say the word _no_. It was not something Steve thought he could miss, but he did now, in the absence of it.

So he could not say when the realization occurred exactly, but it did happen—slow as molasses, thick and sweetly dripping down the back of his neck, until a shock ran down his spine and he realized, as clear as day, what it might all mean.

“I’m heartsick,” he told his mother, that day, pressed both palms to his chest. “I am heartsick over Bucky.”

  
**art:** Steve, clutching his chest, realizing his heartbreak; **art by:** nalonzooo

The truth was more than that. He could not eat, he could not sleep, he could not dream but for Bucky being there. It took him longer than should have been expected of him—but, perhaps, that was not true at all. Perhaps this was simply how clueless he had been all along.

It was then that Sarah Rogers took her son into her arms, pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, and said, “I knew you would not be long in realizing what I have always known to be true.”

Well that was not particularly helpful, but it did ease his distress somewhat, to be able to put a word to his emotions, to be able to look himself—his pale, upset, terrible reflection—in the mirror and say _you feel this way because your heart is sick; because your heart aches; because without realizing it, you have given it to another._

It was his bad luck that he had come to the realization so late; his misfortune that by the time Steve understood that he was in love with Bucky—that Bucky was his other half, that he did not and could not love anyone else but his friend—Bucky had already given his heart to someone else.

*

He saw him again at a distance the last Friday in August, when the summer was nearly over, just three days left before the month and season would turn. At first Steve thought he was seeing spirits, when on walk down Fifth Avenue in order to complete an errand or two, he spied a familiar carriage parked in front of the bank across the street from him.

There was no mistaking him for anyone else, as much as Steve believed himself to be conjuring images. The curve of his shoulders could not belong to anyone else, nor could the way he wore his bowtie so precisely, nor the way he let the top button on his jacket undone. The slope of his nose could be no one else’s, nor the plush shape of his mouth, the bright grey of his eyes, and the shine of his brown curls, shorn short on the sides, but a little longer at top, where one or two curls hung down into his eyes. Steve found he knew every inch of Bucky by heart and then he wondered when he must have memorized him and, further, how it could have gone without his notice for so long.

Steve’s heart picked up, almost painfully, his blood thudding in his ears, his chest tight with too many feelings he could not name and would not try to. Instead, he brightened, nearly floating off his feet, just for the chance to see Bucky again—just for one moment where he could say hello to his dear friend and Bucky could look at him, look him in the eyes, and say hello back.

“Buck—!” Steve started, loudly, raising a hand to wave, but just then another carriage rattled down the street in between the two sides.

By the time the carriage had cleared from his sight, Bucky was back in his own car, leaning forward and smiling, saying something to his driver with a laugh.

Steve could hear that laugh in his head, if not out loud. It was a laugh he had grown up listening to—light and grounding and wonderful—one that had provided him comfort even when he was low, one that he could conjure in his sleep, in the dark, in any state of consciousness or being. It was one that he had missed, so terribly much.

“Bucky!” Steve tried again, louder, a little desperately, but it was no use.

His voice was still too soft and the street too loud. Bucky touched the driver’s shoulder and with a start, without even noticing or even acknowledging Steve, the car lurched forward.

It rattled down the street, paused at the end, and turned the corner to disappear.

Steve was left with his hand raised, a sinking feeling in his stomach, and a sadness so deep that it made his head ache.

*

The last day of August was the hottest by far, a humid, sweltering day that left most sweating and the rest breathless from the heat. Steve did better in summer than winter by far, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it particularly much. Still, his mother insisted that he spend the last day of the summer out of the house, which was as likely her way of getting rid of his despondent mood as it was hoping he would find one fleeting moment of happiness to save the entire season.

He grumbled as long as he felt was appropriate before changing into his lightest lounge suit, a three piece linen ensemble of a cream color that his mother had picked out for him two years before. Evidently he had not grown much since then, one way or the other. He left his vest unbuttoned and his top collar as well. He did not wear a tie or a bowtie and could not be bothered with a hat. All in all, he looked as much the grumpy louche as he felt.

It was no pleasure to stand still in the heat of Central Park, but it was better near the water and it was prettier beside. Steve passed the usual bridge he and Sam liked to stop at, feeling more restless than usual, an itch beneath his palm that he couldn’t quite rid himself of. He wandered down the paths of the Park mindlessly, passing happy couples and sweet families, until his stomach hurt from the sweetness of it. He forced himself past them, winding and winding and when he finally looked up, he found himself looking at the boathouse.

He hadn’t been to the Central Park boathouse in years—not since his father had passed. He and his father used to come out here all the time, on hot summer days and crisp autumn ones, to stand near the wooden railings and watch the small boats push out from the dock. It was a tradition of theirs, whenever Joseph had a moment to spare and if Steve could convince him to shirk his duties. He didn’t often, but he did sometimes and when he did so—when he was in that kind of a mood—it was an absolute treat.

He and Bucky used to come out here too, at other times, running down the platform, one after the other, waving after the receding boats, or simply sitting at the edge, dangling their feet into water and elbowing one another’s sides. Then Bucky had grown a little older and Steve had kept to the dock, watching Bucky in the boats with his friends. Then Steve had grown a little older too and when his asthma wasn’t as bad, Bucky would bring him out there on the water as well.

Steve remembered those summers the best of all—just him and Bucky in a boat, in the middle of the water, surrounded by tall, green trees. It was Central Park and there were plenty of boaters, but it never felt that way to him. It had always, when it was just the two of them, felt like they were alone in their own, whole world.

Steve trudged up the familiar wooden stairs to the dock now. There were a few people on the water today, close enough to the middle that Steve would not be bothering them if he just leaned against the railing and—watched.

He pressed his hand to his chest again, trying to quell the hurt that lived there. Would it ever feel normal again? Maybe it would, one day, years from now, after Bucky and Sam had been married long enough that Steve wouldn’t feel devastated to see them; maybe, after he had gotten used to the fact that there was someone else in Bucky’s life, someone else there to sit next to him, to lay next to him, to smile at him and elicit a laugh in return.

Perhaps, if he waited long enough, years from now, he would be able to accept this—that he could not have Bucky—not in the way that he wants him—and then, on that day, when he could swallow that truth, it wouldn’t hurt so to breathe.

Steve stood against the railing, watching the ducks float along the water, hand pressed to his chest, trying to breathe in and breathe out—

When he heard his name.

“Steve,” he said. “There you are.”

  
**art:** Bucky, finally finding Steve; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve closed his eyes and tried to keep his jaw from trembling. He pressed his mouth into a thin line, his hand a fist, pressing deeply, painfully, digging into his chest.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Steve,” Bucky said, and turned him. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

*

The first time Steve had seen Bucky, they had been children—Steve but four years old and Bucky ten. He should not have remembered that day so clearly, nor that vision, but it was as clear to him now as it had been to him then—Steve, a child, and Bucky, older, but with a kind smile and curly hair and beat up knuckles and bright eyes. Steve had loved him then, almost immediately, and he loved him now, just as dearly.

He thought maybe this day would be the same. He would not forget Bucky, standing a foot away from him, his hand on Steve’s shoulder, a concerned expression on his face—his light blue-grey eyes bright, his hair sticking to his temples in the heat, a flush high in his cheeks, dressed in a linen suit that made him look as handsome as it did elegant.

Steve swallowed. He did not know how he could do this. He was not certain he could let Bucky be anyone else’s but his own.

“Buck,” Steve said, quietly. “How have you been?”

Bucky said nothing for a moment, simply watching him—simply, taking him in, as though he had been thirsty, so parched in the hot midday sun and what he had been looking for was Steve, his oasis in the desert.

“Steve,” Bucky said again. Steve loved the way his name sounded on Bucky’s lips. He wished he could hear it more—wished he had the right to it.

“I’m sorry, dear friend. I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

That surprised Steve to hear. He faltered.

“Forgive you?”

Bucky looked...not abashed, but chastened; he looked guilty and sorrowful and regretful—things he should not have looked like, especially not now.

“I have treated you terribly,” Bucky said. His gaze was lowered, his fingers flexing into his palms and then straightening. He was fretful; he was fidgeting! It was so unlike him that Steve couldn’t help but stare in surprise.

“I meant to answer you,” Bucky said, after a moment’s inhale. “I took out paper and wrote out the words so many times, but I could never get them to say what I meant. I wrote you a hundred different letters and I threw them all away, knowing they weren’t good enough. And then it was so late and I had failed you—I knew you would be upset with me. And you’re right to be! I have scolded you so many times in the past and now I’m the one who has acted awfully.”

A pause and Bucky looked up, searching Steve’s expression desperately. “I’m sorry, Steve. Can you find it in your heart to forgive an old friend?”

Steve couldn’t help it then—his eyes watered as he took in a sharp breath.

“I thought you were angry with me,” Steve said. “I thought I had ruined everything—ruined our...friendship forever. You were so angry when you left.”

“I was a fool,” Bucky said. His expression was open now, somehow both mournful and earnest. His hand was still on Steve’s shoulder. “I shouldn't have scolded you so. I was so frustrated that day but—I shouldn’t have taken my temper out on you. I was wrong to do so. I was too hard.”

“You were right to be,” Steve said, his voice small. “I was awful. I was judgmental, and mean-spirited, and I thought too highly of myself and—Bucky. Buck. You’re not angry with me? You don’t hate me?”

“Hate you?” Bucky said, astonished. “Steve, I could never hate you. Are you—is that what you’ve thought this entire time?”

Steve swallowed and shook his head, but he couldn’t help his expression, it told everything.

“I’m a fool,” Bucky said again, softly. “I have made a mess of everything.”

“You were gone for so long,” Steve said.

Bucky let go of Steve then, to run a hand through his hair. He loosened some of the curls stuck to his forehead, the hair sticking to the back of his neck.

“Oh Becca is—” Bucky blinked and suddenly smiled. It took over his whole face. It made Steve’s chest flutter. “Becca is expecting. I went to help her, she was so terribly sick in the mornings. She asked me to stay longer, but I couldn’t. Steve. I couldn’t stay there when my heart was here.”

He looked at Steve uncertainly, as though to impart some meaning. As though, by his expression alone, Steve might discern what he had to say so that Bucky would not have to say it at all.

He didn’t have to say it in so many words anyway, for Steve to understand.

Steve felt like he might die, just then, his heart so sick, so sore he could not speak.

“Do you understand me?” Bucky asked, quietly.

Steve backed away from him slowly, unable to face it this way. Perhaps a better man than him could have, perhaps a stronger one; but not him. Bucky could not ask this of him.

“If you love our friendship,” Steve begged. “You won’t continue. Please, Bucky. Just leave it unsaid.”

Bucky looked as though—well, as though the breath had been punched out of him. His light, so bright a moment before—perhaps even hopeful—went out as quickly as it had come; a terrible shadow shuttered across his face.

“I see,” Bucky said, stiffly. Then, softly, “Then that’s my answer. I’ll respect our friendship. Of course I will, Steve.”

It was not enough to keep him there. Bucky gave Steve such a sad, terribly heartbroken look that it unsettled Steve. He ran a hand through his hair again and turned, striding down the dock back toward the Park.

Steve watched Bucky’s retreating back—the long, familiar lines of it—and only let him get as far as halfway down the path before his brain kicked back into motion. With a startled gasp, Steve ran down the length of the dock and then down the path after him.

“Bucky!” he called, heart hammering. “Buck, wait!”

Bucky didn’t stop, not until Steve called again, louder, and then he slowed stiffly while Steve skidded to a halt in front of him.

“Bucky, that was so foolish of me. So unkind,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

Bucky frowned at him and leaned forward to rub his back soothingly.

“Please don’t give yourself an attack on my account, Steve.”

“Shush,” Steve said. He sucked in a breath and looked up at him. “How can I ask you to respect our friendship if I am not willing to do the same? That was shameful of me, I’m sorry. Whatever it is you have to say, I will listen, of course.”

Bucky looked at him strangely, warily.

“I’ve said all I can,” he said. “I’ve gotten my answer.”

“Please,” Steve said again. “I’m sorry I was so selfish. It’s just, I could not bear the thought of it—of losing you to someone, even if it was to Sam, who I adore and who is the best person I have ever met and who deserves to be as happy as anyone could possibly deserve to be, but even if it were to him it would devastate me and that is no excuse, that is not your problem, but I just—”

“Steve,” Bucky said, eyes wide. “Steve—hold on—”

“—I just thought you would tell me,” Steve said, desperately, wringing his hands.

“ _Steve_ , I—”

“I thought when you found that person, you would tell me. Even if it is one of our dearest friends, even if it hurts me—not that you would hurt me on purpose, I know that of course, I know you and Sam would never mean to and oh, it’s not _your_ fault, all of this, but—you promised me, Buck. You _promised_.”

“Steve, will you _please let me speak_?” Bucky said, exasperated.

Steve stopped to inhale and was surprised to find that Bucky didn’t look at all heartbroken or weary. He just looked confused.

“What do you mean Sam?” Bucky asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“Sam and you—he said—” Steve started and stopped. Now he was confused. “He said he wrote you. And that he had feelings for you and that—you felt the same way. He thought. Maybe?”

“I didn’t say—” Bucky said, his confusion deepening. “Or at least, I don’t...think I did. It’s possible I was misunderstanding...a lot.”

“Buck?” Steve said, cautiously.

Bucky shook his head. Slowly, his confusion cleared to something lighter, something almost hopefully brighter.

“Steve, Sam is a wonderful man,” he said. “He will absolutely make someone a happy, kind, delightful husband.”

Steve couldn’t help it. He pouted.

That made Bucky laugh. Oh, it just brightened up his entire face.

“But not _me_ , you silly fool,” Bucky said. “Is that what you thought all this time? You thought Sam and I—”

Steve colored.

“You were writing to him,” Steve said, a little petulantly. “I didn’t hear from you, but he said you wrote him letters.”

“I wrote to him because he was easy to write to,” Bucky said, gently. “Because I have no attachment to him other than general fondness. That of a friend. It took me little thought to reply to him, so I did.”

Steve swallowed.

“Do you understand now?”

He looked up at Bucky’s face, looked up the few inches Bucky had on him, and was struck, again, how beautiful he was. How light-hearted and kind and funny and stubborn and infuriating and silly and handsome and beautiful. His grey eyes were lit now with a soft kind of hope that almost made Steve ache, just a spot beneath his ribs, that tender place where all aches pressed.

“Were you jealous?” Bucky asked, grinning.

“No,” Steve said, immediately.

“Why were you jealous?” Bucky asked. His smile widened.

“I wasn’t, of course,” Steve said. “I was very happy for you both. Where will you marry? I hope you will consider an outdoor wedding. I will bring a gift that everyone will be envious of course, I—”

But Bucky wouldn’t let him blather on anymore, deflecting. He had had enough, which was just as it should have been.

Bucky caught Steve by the jaw and drew him closer, fingers pressed against Steve’s skin, the other hand at his side.

“If I loved you any less, maybe I could speak more,” Bucky said, softly. “Or...at least write some letters.”

  
**art:** "If I loved you any less, maybe I could speak more," Bucky said, softly. "Or...at least write some letters."; **art by:** nalonzooo

Steve’s face warmed. His feet barely felt as though they were still touching the ground. His heart seemed as though it might simply beat out of his chest.

“I wrote you some too,” Steve said. This time he caught onto Bucky, one hand at his elbow, the other carefully, tentatively touching his cheek. Bucky leaned into the touch immediately, turning his face into Steve’s palm. “Those I could not send. They would have been too...revealing.”

“Would they have?” Bucky asked. He would not look away, no matter what. Steve felt caught by those eyes, drowning in the light of them. “What would they have revealed?”

“That, perhaps,” Steve said slowly, “Sam was right all along.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Sam again! What’s he to do with this?”

Steve smiled.

“When we were at Baron Hall that day,” he said. “We watched Natasha and Clint quarrel and then have an intimate moment. I could not figure out how they could be like that—arguing so much and so tender together as well.”

Bucky looked amused at that.

“And what did Sam say?”

Steve made a face.

“He said something along the lines of _you of all people should understand what that’s like_.”

Bucky laughed at that—loud and clear; a bright, happy, delighted sound.

“I love you,” Steve said to that, a rushed, open, honest thing.

He traced Bucky’s cheek, his jaw. He traced his brows and his eyelids and the slope of his nose, his fingers brushing along until he stopped at the very tip. “I love you very much, Bucky.”

Now Bucky looked as though he were going to cry. He looked shattered, nearly devastated, but in a good way, as though he had been waiting for this, and only this, for as long as he could remember.

“God, but it has taken you long enough,” Bucky nearly growled.

“That’s so strange,” Steve said to him mildly. “That is almost exactly what Ma said.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated, much beleaguered sigh and it was then—in between a sigh and a fond, familiar, peeved eyeroll—and not a moment sooner—that Steve knew it was the right time to lean forward and kiss him.

*

  
**art:** Bucky, holding Steve's face before they kiss; **art by:** nalonzooo

*

There would be much to discuss later, such as: how long Bucky had yearned for Steve, or how Steve could possibly have stayed so oblivious for so long; how Bucky had been a complete idiot in not answering Steve back, or how Steve had nearly made himself sick with a broken heart from something he had made up in his head; or how they would need to decide where they would live after they married, because Steve could not leave Sarah for anything and if that was what Bucky expected, then this was not going to work out, this would not go his way and—

“My god, how do you talk so much?” Bucky blinked at Steve, smothering his mouth with a hand. “How have I fallen in love with someone who cannot stop hearing himself long enough to listen to another person?”

Steve argued against Bucky’s palm, but it was muffled.

“I know you, Steve,” Bucky said. “I have not spent all of these years not knowing you. I love you and I love Mrs. Rogers and I love Brookfield. I have no qualms about leaving Baron Hall to Louise or to Eleanor. As long as we are together, we can live anywhere at all and I would be as happy as can be.”

Steve softened at that and even stopped attempting to argue. It was the most concession Bucky had ever gotten and would, likely, ever receive. It was a good one.

Bucky let go of his mouth cautiously, although his palm still lingered, his thumb brushing the tip of Steve’s chin. He looked down at him warmly, happily, as though he could not think of anything better he could be doing than standing there, half-caught in exasperation, half-caught in fondness, on the verge of bickering with Steve now, and in the future, perpetually.

Well, it was just as well, because perhaps Steve was slow, and perhaps it had taken him _slightly_ longer than the normal person to realize his feelings, but once he caught on, it could not be said that he was shy to take the opportunities given.

That is to say, Steve grinned back at Bucky and, reaching up on his toes, fit their mouths together again.

*

It was hot and it was humid and they were both damp from the heat of summer, but it did not matter to either Steve or Bucky that day.

Their suit jackets clung to their bodies and their hairs stuck to the back of their necks, but they embraced anyway, Steve leaning up on his toes, his arms around Bucky’s neck, and Bucky holding him up, his arms around the small of Steve’s back. They fit their mouths together, softly, and then more eagerly, and the two of them kissed, and kissed.

They took a short, laughing, giddy breath, and Bucky tucked a strand of blond hair behind Steve’s pink ear, and then, leaning back down, they kissed once again.

  
It was the last day of August and the perfect end to an imperfect summer.

Steve could not imagine himself to ever be happier.

  
**art:** The perfect end to an imperfect summer; **art by:** nalonzooo

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we only have the one chapter left after this! Thank you so much for reading along and leaving your kind and enthusiastic comments--they have been so fun to read and a bright spot in these dreary, pandemic days. ♥


	12. XII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Steve’s happiness—his delirious, incandescent happiness—could not stop the hurt of Sam’s face when Steve told him.

**PART XII.**

**FALL.**

Even Steve’s happiness—his delirious, incandescent happiness—could not stop the hurt of Sam’s face when Steve told him.

It flickered across his features slowly, his expression pinching and then smoothing out, his usually easy features overlaid with disappointment. It was difficult to see and even worse to have caused.

“Sam,” Steve said. “I’m so sor—”

For once, Sam did not let him finish.

“No offense, Steve,” he said quietly. “But I’m a little tired of your apologies.”

Steve couldn’t say it didn’t hurt.

He also couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. He had promised Sam for a year, had done all manners of unsuccessful meddling and now Sam was left with this—nothing, while Steve was happily engaged to the person Sam had grown feelings for.

It was no less hurtful for having been unintentional. Steve understood that now.

“I’ll do anything to make this right, Sam,” he begged, wringing his hands. “I was wrong to interfere, I’m so sorr—anything at all, friend, I will do it, you simply tell me.”

Sam shook his head, running a hand across the back of his neck. He looked elsewhere—anywhere other than at Steve, as though he could not bear to do so, and even though Steve could not blame him, even though Steve knew it was well within Sam’s rights to never speak with him again, still Steve’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

“I think I need some time,” Sam said. “The best thing you could do now is just...give me some time.”

It was not the answer Steve had hoped for, but it was the one he deserved. He could not charm his way out of the consequences for his actions this time and, this time, he would not try. Steve looked down at his hands, feeling miserable and guilty and heartbroken, but he nodded all the same.

“Of course,” he said, softly. “It is the least you deserve.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, looking at Steve this time. Although his expression was guarded, he did not look as though he hated Steve, and perhaps that was worse; that even in this, in heartbreak and bitter disappointment, Sam Wilson was still the most gracious person Steve had ever met. “Take care.”

Sam turned, leaving Steve in the middle of the sidewalk. The sun was shining warmly over him, but underneath, Steve felt cold and terrible, down to his very bones.

After a few minutes of staring blankly after his friend’s retreating back, Steve turned as well, his chest tight and his head aching, feeling as though, once again, he had broken something he had loved very much—this time beyond repair.

*

The weeks of September passed quickly—even quicker than August had. Steve spent much of that time helping his mother adjust to the change in seasons and what time was not spent with her was spent elsewhere, helping others where he could—visiting Tony when he seemed lonely, and volunteering at a breadline with Peggy, and, with the help of his father’s past connections, offering a drawing class for children at the Met. He had even mustered the courage to visit a tenement with Bucky and he felt changed for it; better for understanding more now, what Sam had meant all of those times he had tried to explain wealth and inequality to Steve.

He thought about Sam constantly, of course; could not help but wonder after his friend and nearly every day he almost put his shoes on to turn up at Colonel Fury’s doorsteps, unannounced, before stopping himself.

“He’ll forgive you,” Bucky said to him as a comfort, one night.

They sat on the couch in front of the fire, Steve’s legs pulled up to his chest and Bucky’s arm around his shoulder. Steve leaned into him and fit there perfectly, slotted neatly into Bucky’s side as though it were made for just that.

“He would be right not to,” Steve said miserably. “Why did I try and meddle, Buck? Why couldn’t I have left well enough alone?”

Bucky chuckled a little and pressed a kiss to the back of Steve’s neck. Steve shivered lightly at the show of affection and Bucky pressed a more chaste kiss to the top of his head.

“You have never left anything that was well enough alone in your life, Steve Rogers,” Bucky said. “And I doubt anyone expects you to start now.”

Steve pouted, but it was only for show. Inside, he felt wretched, practically torn up. He missed Sam every single day and every day Sam did not show or call, Steve was afraid he had left him for Chicago already. At this point, he would not even expect Sam to say goodbye.

At this point, he could not even say he would not deserve it.

“No one in their right might could not love you,” Bucky said then. He rested his head on Steve’s shoulder. “It’s actually quite annoying.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“I have watched you and Sam together for a year. I know he loves you, Steve,” Bucky said. “I know he’ll forgive you. You just have to be patient and let him come to you.”

“I am not good at being patient,” Steve said petulantly.

Bucky chuckled.

“Yes, I know,” he said. And then, softer, “You will have to try.”

It was not the advice he wanted, but it was the advice he needed. He curled into Bucky’s side and Bucky smiled, pressing kisses into his jaw and cheek and hair.

They fell asleep like that on the couch, until Sarah Rogers came in and caused a fuss, saying what a scandal it would be if anyone found the two of them being so intimate and affectionate when they were not yet married.

*

Steve waited until the leaves began to turn their colors, Central Park and all of the Upper East Side wreathed in yellows and oranges and reds.

He waited until the warm coolness of September turned to the actual chill of autumn; until the days grew rainier and drearier and all Steve did was paint dejectedly in the solarium.

He waited until he was sure there was no saving this.

  
And then, one day, Sam knocked on their front door.

*

“Oh, Sam,” Steve said, excitedly, nervously.

The two of them sat in the solarium, because although it was rainy and terribly grey outside, what natural light there was still filtered through the glass ceiling, and the room was kept warm by the torches besides.

Sam took his hat off and took a seat on a chaise. Steve sat in an armchair across from him, his chest so tight with anxiety that he could barely breathe. That did not mean he could sit still or even be quiet, however, and the nervous energy nearly spilled off of him as he fidgeted, sitting and then standing.

“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? We have those orange pastries you like—”

“Coffee would be fine, Steve,” Sam said. He looked up at Steve, with a smile. It wasn’t nearly the same warm, open smile he would have given before, but it wasn’t cold either. It gave Steve hope and that was all he needed.

“I’ll have Vernon bring us some,” Steve said, nodding.

He went away to tell Vernon to bring coffee and extra orange pastries and then came back to sit again. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. He was so nervous, he felt light-headed.

“I thought maybe you had left,” Steve said, after a tense minute. “To Chicago. Without telling me.”

“I considered it,” Sam said, with a wry smile. “There were a few days when I thought maybe that was all that was left to me. That I should take Uncle Fury’s offer and go and not tell you and be done with this whole place.”

That hurt Steve more than he could say. But Sam was clearly still here, so he just nodded.

“I milled on the idea for some time. But then, do you know what I did instead?” Sam said and looked up at the sky through the glass ceiling above them. Then, surprising Steve, he laughed.

“What?” Steve asked, brows furrowed.

Sam shook his head, running a hand over his close-cropped hair, in a gesture that was so fond and so familiar to Steve that it nearly caught his breath.

“Jesus, I talked to him,” Sam said. He dragged his hands over his face and when he looked up at Steve this time, his eyes were crinkled at the corners.

“I sat Uncle Fury down and told him I didn’t _want_ to go to Chicago. That I liked the life I had here, and that if he had work for me in the City I would take it and that if he didn’t, well then I would find it on my own, somehow, and—do you know what he said back to me, after all that?”

Steve looked at him in wonder, shaking his head.

“He looked me dead in the eyes and said, _well, it’s about damn time you asked_ ,” Sam said. He was laughing again. “He told me to shut up and that he had already secured me a position with Odinson, but that he had just been waiting for me to man up and say something about it.”

Steve was—god, he was relieved. The breath he released felt like it took pounds off his shoulders, sheer tons. He breathed out and he scrubbed his hands over his face and he laughed out loud in delight.

“Oh my god!” he said, taking the lord’s name in vain. “After all that!”

“ _After all that_ ,” Sam agreed and he laughed out loud with Steve, the bright, relieved sounds of their laughter chasing each other around the solarium.

“Sam!” Steve said loudly, his eyes shining brightly, in pure disbelief. “You’re _staying_?”

“I’m staying,” Sam said, grinning. “For as long as I care to.”

“Sam,” Steve said again, exhaling in a rush. He couldn’t take this anymore, not with this good news—not with Sam _right there_ , a smile on his face, his hat on his lap, looking as comfortable and as familiar as he had the first day Steve had met him, when Sam had offered him a glass bottle of water and changed his life forevermore.

“Sam, I’m so sorry. Please believe me when I say I have learned my lesson. My matchmaking is far behind me—I was so stupid and thoughtless, reckless with your precious feelings, when I should have let you be and—I never meant to hurt you, and with Bucky, I should have said something, only I didn’t know it until too late, but that still isn’t an excuse, I know, and—”

“Steve, Steve,” Sam said, holding up his hands to slow him down. “Please, stop. You’ve apologized enough. Yes, I was angry with you about Barnes. I was angry about that and about Natasha and about Maria—but you know, much of that was on me. I knew Barnes only had eyes for you, it was obvious enough to anyone who paid him a second’s attention.”

Steve blushed and Sam grinned.

“Yeah, except for you,” he said. Sam shook his head. “I don’t know why I deluded myself into thinking I stood a chance with him. I think maybe because he was so easy to talk to and I was so desperate to stay.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Steve said again.

“Don’t be,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I’m happy for you two. Honestly, Steve. I could not be happier.”

Something a bit like hope flared bright and painful in the center of Steve’s chest. He smiled at Sam then—genuinely, truly smiled.

“But, there’s more and I’m afraid you won’t like it,” Sam said.

Steve looked at him questioningly and Sam exhaled his nerves, running a hand over his head.

“When I wasn’t speaking with you—I had a lot of time. I went back to that cafe we passed that day—when we were looking for a gift for Mrs. Rogers, remember? I was thinking I would stop in for a coffee. And she was there, waiting.” Sam’s smile started slowly but then spread wide, spilling across his features, his eyes lighting up, his entire face beaming.

“Claire?” Steve guessed.

“Well she wasn’t _waiting_ for me, so to speak,” Sam said with a nervous laugh. “But she was there. And I asked to sit next to her and she...let me. Before we both knew it, we had spent the entire day there, catching up and talking. The owners had to ask us to leave.”

Steve smiled at that—he was beginning to smile broader.

“It was easy. We talked about nothing and, somehow, everything. It felt like no time had passed at all. We could have spent all day talking. And I thought...this was what I had been missing with Maria and Natasha and even Bucky,” Sam said.

Sam shook his head, ruefully.

“We met up again the next day, and the day after, and...I decided that’s what I wanted to keep doing, for as long as I can.”

Steve’s eyes shined a little with emotion. He clasped his hands together.

“I asked her for her hand in marriage,” Sam said, looking at Steve. “And she accepted.”

“Oh,” Steve said. He couldn’t help but choke up; his throat was so tight with feeling he could not say a thing at all.

Of course Sam misinterpreted that immediately.

“I told you you wouldn’t be pleased, but look—” he started and Steve immediately shook his head and opened his mouth.

“Sam, no!” he cried. “No, I mean—please stop. Who am I to say no again when every time I have done so in the past I have hurt you? Who am I to say _anything_ ever again, on this subject? I clearly do not know a single thing about love. Bucky reminds me this every single day and do you know what? After everything I have done, I cannot even say he is wrong. It is _unbearably annoying_.”

Sam laughed at that and Steve grinned.

“If you love her—if you wish to marry her—then I am certain she is a most wonderful match, and will find a great place among our society. I am happy for you, dear friend. I could not _be_ happier for you.”

“Really?” Sam asked, looking immensely relieved. “You approve? You’re not just saying that?”

“Sam, who am I to approve of anything?” Steve asked, laughing. “I think I’ve proven myself to be the biggest idiot on the entire island of Manhattan.”

“Well not the _biggest_ ,” Sam grinned.

“I swear to you,” Steve said. He got up then and crossed the space between them. He sat next to Sam just to be able to pull him, finally, into an embrace. “I am delighted for you and for Claire. You must let me throw the wedding here. We will celebrate you in Brookfield, as you deserve.”

“Steve, I—” Sam said and this time, he too was choked up. “Thank you. I don’t know what good fortune I had that day we met, but I know it was the best luck I have ever had in my life and ever will have. Thank you.”

Steve couldn’t return the sentiment—not in so many eloquent words because, at the heart of him, he was not eloquent words. Steve was all impulse and high spirits, with a mind for bickering and passion for a type of stubbornness that no one could surpass. He had a heart of gold, perhaps, but that was neither here nor there.

It did not matter, anyway, what he could or could not say that day. He hugged Sam tightly and they both knew the truth—that they were both lucky in this, a friendship quickly made, and a friendship fondly kept, that would last as long as they both would live.

* * *

On October 15, 1891, Samuel Thomas Wilson married Claire Temple in an intimate and beautiful and joyous ceremony at Brookfield Estate in the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

The occasion was full of mirth, with good food and loud music and enough champagne that Clint Barton ended up on the roof without his hat and Natasha Romanoff had to chase up there after him.

Maria Hill and Brunhilde Valkyrie, both in new tuxedos—one in black and one in white—drank champagne and whispered with Peggy Carter and Angie Martinelli in the corner, and Thor Odinson and Loki Laufeyson, newly married, shared canapes, Thor with an arm around Loki’s back, and Loki leaning into him, smiling more easily and laughing more freely than anyone had ever seen him before. James Rhodes and Tony Stark were there too, Rhodey rolling his eyes at every other sentence out of his friend’s mouth, while his friend held the attention of a strawberry blonde woman who looked at him as though he exasperated her to her very core, and also as though she probably would not ever ask him to stop talking. Steve knew that look well.

Although everyone in attendance was nearly radiant with happiness, it could not be said that there was anyone more luminous than the groom himself, who, upon lifting the veil from his bride’s face, almost cried to see her grinning up at him.

Steve did cry at that and not even Sam and Natasha’s teasing afterward could lessen his feelings.

“I am so happy for you,” Steve said, his voice watery as he embraced Sam. “I am so terribly glad you didn’t listen to me.”

“You and me both,” Claire said to Steve, a wry look on her face, and he laughed and abandoned Sam to hug her too.

It turned out that Sam, of course, had been right and Steve had _maybe_ been wrong about the whole thing, because Claire Temple was just as warm and wickedly funny and sharp as anyone Steve could have chosen for his dear friend. She was still a reporter by trade, of course, which _shocked_ his mother, but by now, Steve had not only come around to the idea, but delighted in it. Claire was teaching him all kinds of things about unions and the politics of the city and, in return, Steve was teaching her how to draw. She was a much better student than her beloved.

“Can I have my wife back now?” Sam asked, with a bemused smile on his face, and Steve, grinning, relinquished Claire back to her husband.

  
As for Steve and Bucky, well—Bucky asked Steve to dance and that night, he did not ask anyone else. Steve nestled in as close as he dared, his chin on Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky’s head resting against his own.

He could feel the warmth between them, the soft, rhythmic beating of their hearts, an entire childhood of memories shared and all of the rest they would make together, in the weeks—and months—and years—to come.

Bucky pulled back from Steve, to look at him.

“Have you changed your stance on marriage now, Mr. Rogers?” he asked, a look of soft, almost smudged amusement written on the familiar lines of his face.

Steve smiled back up at him, drunk and woozy, all the world feeling gauzy and warm, like a softspun dream.

“It is certainly for some people,” Steve said.

Bucky raised an eyebrow and Steve laughed softly.

“Such as me, Mr. Barnes,” Steve said.

Smiling, Bucky brushed his unruly blond hair away from his face, leaned forward, and kissed him.

* * *

  
**art:** the whole gang at Sam and Claire's wedding; **art by:** nalonzooo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ensemble piece!!! That was drawn!!! By the absolutely incredible, stupidly talented nalonzooo--I mean look at it. I can't stop staring. Every single detail gets better the more you stare at it, so please stare at it with me and then leave her some love, here or [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/nalonzooo/status/1248616279709077505?s=20)! ♥ ♥ ♥


	13. Epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for coming on this journey with us--this was a challenging story to write and, honestly, one that I couldn't have foreseen such a warm reception for! Period pieces are hard enough to read normally, let alone in fanfiction! 
> 
> But to those who have commented and loved this fic along the way--know that every one of your comments were appreciated and really made this grey and dreary time that much better.
> 
> Thank you!! Here's your happy ending. ♥

**EPILOGUE.**

*

Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes married in a lavish and beautiful ceremony. It took place at the boathouse in Central Park.

Those who attended said there was not a dry eye in sight.

Those who knew the grooms caught them bickering before the ceremony, and bickering after the ceremony.

They only stopped in the middle—to promise themselves to one another, in sickness, and in health, for better or for worse, till death do they part.

Well, all right. They didn’t really stop then either.

Because the Reverend tried to make them say those words and Steve looked at Bucky and said, out loud, for all of their friends to hear, “If you think you will be free of me at death, I _must_ assure you, you are terribly mistaken. This is both a life and a death commitment. Post-death, even. I plan on annoying you far longer than _that_.”

The Reverend had looked at him questioningly and Bucky had rolled his eyes and huffed out an exasperated breath and then he had muttered something no one could quite hear, but could certainly see that he had said, and then he had cupped Steve’s face in his hand and leaned forward and kissed him.

To be clear, the Reverend had said nothing about kissing his husband. They had not even exchanged the rings yet.

The Man of God had looked—bewildered and confused—at the best man, but Sam had just grinned and shrugged, like _what are you gonna do?_

It had thrown off the entire ceremony, but that was—as Claire Temple reported in the _Society_ section of The New York Times, a few days later—almost to be expected.

In fact, no one who knew either of them could, truthfully, say they were at all surprised.

“I do,” Steve said—again, unprompted—to a grinning, hopelessly besotted Bucky and Bucky, his eyes crinkled fondly at the corners, smiled and leaned forward, to kiss his husband again.

* * *

  
**art:** Steve and Bucky, married at last; **art by:** nalonzooo

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, please give all of your love to [Nikki](https://twitter.com/nalonzooo/status/1248616279709077505?s=20), who has not only been an absolute dream to work with, but who has put so much love and thought and research into her art--and it shows. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> \+ Thanks 2 Laura Ingalls Wilder for letting me riff off of _These Happy Golden Years_ for the title and 2 Jane Austen for letting me take _Emma_ and make it just a little gayer.
> 
> \+ Give some EXCEPTIONAL love [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/nalonzooo/status/1248492435769966594?s=20) to nalonzooo for her, frankly, INCREDIBLE art.
> 
> \+ Some historical liberties were taken for the writing of this fic--if there is something that needs to be corrected, you don't need to tell me...trust me, I know.
> 
> \+ You can RT this fic [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/spacerenegades/status/1248337616166096902?s=20) or reblog [on Tumblr](https://spacerenegades.tumblr.com/post/614949335539531776/these-happy-gilded-years-by-crinklefries-art-by) if you'd like! ♥
> 
> \+ I can be found on [le Twitter](https://twitter.com/spacerenegades) yelling about a variety of things. Please join me!


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